I am sailing to the leeward,
Where the current runs to seaward
  Soft and slow,
Where the sleeping river grasses
Brush my paddle as it passes
  To and fro.

On the shore the heat is shaking
All the golden sands awaking
  In the cove;
And the quaint sand-piper, winging
O'er the shallows, ceases singing
  When I move.

On the water's idle pillow
Sleeps the overhanging willow,
  Green and cool;
Where the rushes lift their burnished
Oval heads from out the tarnished
  Emerald pool.

Where the very silence slumbers,
Water lilies grow in numbers,
  Pure and pale;
All the morning they have rested,
Amber crowned, and pearly crested,
  Fair and frail.