Draw in the noisy, splashing oars,

Recline at ease upon the thwarts,

While drifts our bark, we too shall drift,

Upon the current of our thoughts.

For Nature seems to cast a spell,

A deep, resistless drowsyness,

Upon the soul. The dying breeze

Is like a parting, fond caress.

Across the surface of the lake,

The airy swallows lightly skim,

Their dipping pinions sacredly raise

Faint ripples on its level brim.

A sweet, bewitching melody,

Comes from the fountain's distant flow,

The rustling treetops softly sigh,

The waves respond in cadence low.

And as we rest, our dreamful eyes

Shall gaze upon the distant view.

The sloping hills,-the odds arrayed

By autumn's hand in rainbow hue.

So ship the noisy, splashing oars,

Recline at ease upon the thwarts.

While drifts our bark. We too shall drift

Upon the current of our thoughts. [Record.