Your name is murmured by the grass,
By earth, by air, all-where I pass.
IV.
The painted bream may swim the stream—
I'll cast no line to-day, pardi!
In vain the river-ripples gleam,
In vain the thrushes' minstrelsy.
Vain is the wind that whispers, "Lo!
Thy fish are waiting—Angler, go!"
V.