I see it as it looked one afternoon

    In August，——by a fresh soft breeze o'erblown.

    The swiftness of the tide， the light thereon，

    A far-off sail， white as a crescent moon.

    The shining waters with pale currents strewn，

    The quiet fishing-smacks， the Eastern cove¹，

    The semi-circle of its dark， green grove².

    The luminous³ grasses， and the merry sun

    In the grave sky； the sparkle far and wide，

    Laughter of unseen children， cheerful chirp⁴

    Of crickets， and low lisp of rippling⁵ tide，

    Light summer clouds fantastical as sleep

    Changing unnoted while I gazed thereon.

    All these fair sounds and sights I made my own.