Far above us where a jay 
 Screams his matins to the day, 
 Capped with gold and amethyst, 
 Like a vapor from the forge 
 Of a giant somewhere hid, 
 Out of hearing of the clang 
 Of his hammer, skirts of mist 
 Slowly up the woody gorge 
 Lift and hang.

 Softly as a cloud we go,
 Sky above and sky below,
 Down the river; and the dip
 Of the paddles scarcely breaks,
 With the little silvery drip
 Of the water as it shakes
 From the blades, the crystal deep
 Of the silence of the morn,
 Of the forest yet asleep;
 And the river reaches borne
 In a mirror, purple gray,
 Sheer away
 To the misty line of light,
 Where the forest and the stream
 In the shadow meet and plight, 
 Like a dream.

 From amid a stretch of reeds, 
 Where the lazy river sucks 
 All the water as it bleeds 
 From a little curling creek, 
 And the muskrats peer and sneak 
 In around the sunken wrecks 
 Of a tree that swept the skies 
 Long ago, 
 On a sudden seven ducks 
 With a splashy rustle rise, 
 Stretching out their seven necks, 
 One before, and two behind, 
 And the others all arow, 
 And as steady as the wind 
 With a swivelling whistle go, 
 Through the purple shadow led, 
 Till we only hear their whir 
 In behind a rocky spur, 
 Just ahead.