Rich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the fair.
The vales are thine; and when the touch of spring
Thrills them, and gives them gladness in thy light,
They glitter as the glancing swallow’s wing
Dashes the water in his winding flight,
And leaves behind a wave that crumbles bright,
And widens outward to the pebbled shore—
The vales are thine; and when they wake from night,
The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o’er
Their soft and oozy beds, look upward, and adore.