In The Shadows

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.     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.