The snowy thread, that soon is changed to gold;
While far around is heard the dash of wheels,
And the unceasing roar of swollen dams.
The dead leaves dance upon the river’s breast,
With tufts of cotton-waste, and here and there
A golden apple, dropped by careless boy,
Floating along toward the ocean’s flood.
On the grey oak the fisher-bird awaits
The speckled trout, or chaffin, tinged with gold;
While ’neath the rock the swimmer leaves his clothes,