Morning On The Livres.

Far above us where a jay     Screams his matins to the day,     Capped with gold and amethyst,     Like a vapour from the forge     Of a giant somewhere hid,     Out of hearing of the clang     Of his hammer, skirts of mist     Slowly up the woody gorge     Lift and hang.     Softly as a cloud we go,     Sky above and sky below,     Down the river, and the dip     Of the paddles scarcely breaks,     With the little silvery drip     Of the water as it shakes     From the blades, the crystal deep     Of the silence of the morn,     Of the forest yet asleep,     And the river reaches borne     In a mirror, purple grey,     Sheer away     To the misty line of light,     Where the forest and the stream     In the shadow meet and plight,     Like a dream.     From amid a stretch of reeds,     Where the lazy river sucks     All the water as it bleeds     From a little curling creek,     And the muskrats peer and sneak     In around the sunken wrecks     Of a tree that swept the skies     Long ago,     On a sudden seven ducks     With a splashy rustle rise,     Stretching out their seven necks,     One before, and two behind,     And the others all arow,     And as steady as the wind     With a swivelling whistle go,     Through the purple shadow led,     Till we only hear their whir     In behind a rocky spur,     Just ahead.