When friendly summer calls again,
Her little fifers to these hills,
We’ll go–we two–to that arched fane
Of leafage where they prime their bills
Before they start to flood the plain
With quavers, minims, shakes, and trills.
“–We’ll go,” I sing; but who shall say
What may not chance before that day!
And we shall see the waters spring,
From chinks the scrubby copses crown;
And we shall trace their oncreeping
To where the cascade tumbles down
And sends the bobbing growths aswing,
And ferns not quite but almost drown.
“–We shall,” I say; but who may sing
Of what another moon will bring!