Whisper the reeds of the south wind's coming;
From the distant fields comes a scent of hay,
And the busy buzz of the locusts humming.
Above, the clouds like fleecy sheep
Wander across an azure meadow,
And fleck the sluggish river's deep
With changeful tracts of light and shadow.
The fairy fleets at anchor ride,
Galleons fraught with golden lading,
Tossing with every rippling tide
From plunging frog, or cattle wading.
Now bares her arm my fancy's queen,
Wrecked is the fleet in sad disaster;
The pearly petals lose their sheen,
Dulled by the dew-filmed alabaster.
But other spoil she made that day,
Besides the bloom on the water sleeping;
She stole my heart of hearts away,
And has it safely in her keeping.