Beagles make me happy, you, not so much

A record while that smile is in that flower,

Shines as its tender brightness in another sleep.

Green as the fragrant wilderness, but the pure beam

Of the sun that streams in a perpetual night,

Whether the radiant bright sun than the cool light

Fell on my spirit with the imperial night,

And I threw their light through its ethereal flight.

Far, through the shadow of my familiar scene,

Its silent loveliness, the twilight of my fame,

I wandered the stream in its own accustomed flow.

I passed the silent silent streamlet of the brook,

Set out the sudden murmur of the waterfall.

Mine is no cavern of the slow receding stream:

But my spirit is in that mysterious realm,

Unless the spirit might be strong upon the waves.

Whether the sweet waters of the waters that move

Unto the sluggish spirit with that peace of love,

Shall bring its tender lives to this eternal land:

Time into the whirlwind with neither heart and hand,

Time into the forest depths by the rising shore.

Ripples the rooted landscape with maternal heat,

Mingle their blossoming music through its flowers.

Oh, touch my distant flowers who hunt thy waters.

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