Slowly rising from his nook
In some winding, weedy brook.
On the elms the locust shrilled,
And the balmy air was filled
With the breath of new-mown hay
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Brought from meadows far away.
And when low the red sun sank,
And the maples on the bank
Long shadows cast athwart the stream,
Then we'd see gold windows gleam,
Then the housewife's horn we'd hear,
Mocked by echoes far and near,
Followed by the answering call
Made by distance musical.
Often would we with our book
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Amusements.
