Here, impossible romances,
Indefinable sweet fancies,
  Cluster round;
But they do not mar the sweetness
Of this still September fleetness
  With a sound.

I can scarce discern the meeting
Of the shore and stream retreating,
  So remote;
For the laggard river, dozing,
Only wakes from its reposing
  Where I float.

Where the river mists are rising,
All the foliage baptizing
  With their spray;
There the sun gleams far and faintly,
With a shadow soft and saintly,
  In its ray.

And the perfume of some burning
Far-off brushwood, ever turning
  To exhale
All its smoky fragrance dying,
In the arms of evening lying,
  Where I sail.

My canoe is growing lazy,
In the atmosphere so hazy,
  While I dream;
Half in slumber I am guiding,
Eastward indistinctly gliding
  Down the stream.