Above the river clear it roved
And rang upon the meadow dark,
And danced aloft the silent grove
The other shore now all aspark.
The dusk and distance cloak each turn,
Its course upon the western strand;
As golden cloud hems twist and burn,
The parting smoke of sunswept land.
A hill both hot and damp I see,
The day's exhale in night's deep gasp,
The summer lightning, blue and green,
The brightest fire of our sweet past.