Sweet in the rushes
The reed-singers make
A music that hushes
The life of the lake;
The leaves are dumb,
And the tides are still,
And no calls come
From the flocks on the hill.
Forgotten now
Are nightingales,
And on his bough
The linnet fails,—
Midway the mere
My mirrored boat
Shall rest and hear
A slenderer note.
Though, heart, you measure
But one proud rhyme,
You build a treasure
Confounding time —
Sweet in the rushes
The reed-singers make
A music that hushes
The life of the lake.