There is a nook among the alders Still sleeping to the cat-bird's "Hush"; Below, a long stone-bridge is bending Above a runnel's silent rush. A dreamer hither often wanders And gathers many a snow-white stone; He weighs them, poised upon his fingers, Divining each one's silvery tone. He drops them! When the stream makes music, Fair visions with its vault-voice swell: And so, for us, the future rises, As thought-stones stir our heart's "Farewell!" |