Lie and quiver in the sun that through the nodding treetops streams.
I can hear the distant tumble
Of the waters, and the rumble
Of the mill-wheel, never ceasing on its constant, busy round,
And the cascade’s steady drumming
Comes like sweet and lowly humming,
As if water-sprites were chanting, with a low and dreamy sound.
If the sun have just arisen,
With its brightness to bedizen
Clustered leaves, and vines, and flowers—and the dew-drops on the lawn—