Than this rich, outward sunshine, mantling all
The leaves, and grass, and mossy-tinted stones
With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step,
My merry wanderer!—let us rest a while
By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung
From alder boughs and osiers o’er its breast,
The soft red of the flowering willow-herb
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not
E’en melting to a more transparent glow
In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams!