Was it a dream? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd, Martin and I, down a green Alpine stream, Border'd, each bank, with pines; the morning sun, On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops,
On the red pinings of their forest-floor, Drew a warm scent abroad; behind the pines The mountain-skirts, with all their sylvan change Of bright-leaf'd chestnuts and moss'd walnut-trees
And the frail scarlet-berried ash, began. Swiss chalets glitter'd on the dewy slopes, And from some swarded shelf, high up, there came Notes of wild pastoral music — over all
Ranged, diamond-bright, the eternal wall of snow. Upon the mossy rocks at the stream's edge, Back'd by the pines, a plank-built cottage stood, Bright in the sun; the climbing gourd-plant's leaves
Muffled its walls, and on the stone-strewn roof Lay the warm golden gourds; golden, within, Under the eaves, peer'd rows of Indian corn. We shot beneath the cottage with the stream.
On the brown, rude-carved balcony, two forms Came forth — Olivia's, Marguerite! and thine. Clad were they both in white, flowers in their breast; Straw hats bedeck'd their heads, with ribbons blue,
Which danced, and on their shoulders, fluttering, play'd. They saw us, they conferr'd; their bosoms heaved, And more than mortal impulse fill'd their eyes. Their lips moved; their white arms, waved eagerly,
Flash'd once, like falling streams; we rose, we gazed. One moment, on the rapid's top, our boat Hung poised — and then the darting river of Life ( Such now, methought, it was ), the river of Life,
Loud thundering, bore us by; swift, swift it foam'd, Black under cliffs it raced, round headlands shone. Soon the plank'd cottage by the sun-warm'd pines Faded — the moss — the rocks; us burning plains,
Bristled with cities, us the sea received.
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