I am sailing to the leeward, br Where the current runs to seaward br Soft and slow, br Where the sleeping river grasses br Brush my paddle as it passes br To and fro. br br On the shore the heat is shaking br All the golden sands awaking br In the cove; br And the quaint sand-piper, winging br O'er the shallows, ceases singing br When I move. br br On the water's idle pillow br Sleeps the overhanging willow, br Green and cool; br Where the rushes lift their burnished br Oval heads from out the tarnished br Emerald pool. br br Where the very silence slumbers, br Water lilies grow in numbers, br Pure and pale; br All the morning they have rested, br Amber crowned, and pearly crested, br Fair and frail. br br Here, impossible romances, br Indefinable sweet fancies, br Cluster round; br But they do not mar the sweetness br Of this still September fleetness br With a sound. br br I can scarce discern the meeting br Of the shore and stream retreating, br So remote; br For the laggard river, dozing, br Only wakes from its reposing br Where I float. br br Where the river mists are rising, br All the foliage baptizing br With their spray; br There the sun gleams far and faintly, br With a shadow soft and saintly, br In its ray. br br And the perfume of some burning br Far-off brushwood, ever turning br To exhale br All its smoky fragrance dying, br In the arms of evening lying, br Where I sail. br br My canoe is growing lazy, br In the atmosphere so hazy, br While I dream; br Half in slumber I am guiding, br Eastward indistinctly gliding br Down the stream.