With constant greetings bland and free,
The pages of the open book
All flutter with their wayward glee.
As quicker swell their breathings soft,
Cloud-shadows skim along the field;
And yonder dangling woodbines oft
Their crimson bugles gently yield.
The tulip-tree majestic stirs
Far down the water’s marge beside,
And now awake the nearer firs,