I am sailing to the leeward, 
Where the current runs to seaward 
 Soft and slow, 
Where the sleeping river grasses 
Brush my paddle as it passes 
 To and fro. 

On the shore the heat is shaking 
All the golden sands awaking 
 In the cove; 
And the quaint sand-piper, winging 
O'er the shallows, ceases singing 
 When I move. 

On the water's idle pillow 
Sleeps the overhanging willow, 
 Green and cool; 
Where the rushes lift their burnished 
Oval heads from out the tarnished 
 Emerald pool. 

Where the very silence slumbers, 
Water lilies grow in numbers, 
 Pure and pale; 
All the morning they have rested, 
Amber crowned, and pearly crested, 
 Fair and frail. 

Here, impossible romances, 
Indefinable sweet fancies, 
 Cluster round; 
But they do not mar the sweetness 
Of this still September fleetness 
 With a sound. 

I can scarce discern the meeting 
Of the shore and stream retreating, 
 So remote; 
For the laggard river, dozing, 
Only wakes from its reposing 
 Where I float. 

Where the river mists are rising, 
All the foliage baptizing 
 With their spray; 
There the sun gleams far and faintly, 
With a shadow soft and saintly, 
 In its ray. 

And the perfume of some burning 
Far-off brushwood, ever turning 
 To exhale 
All its smoky fragrance dying, 
In the arms of evening lying, 
 Where I sail. 

My canoe is growing lazy, 
In the atmosphere so hazy, 
 While I dream; 
Half in slumber I am guiding, 
Eastward indistinctly gliding 
 Down the stream.