SONG OF THE 

 LEAPING TROUT 



Sing on, wild winds , amid the pine ! 

 Wild waters, onward race ! 

 Sing what a shining world is mine — 

 A realm of liquid space ! 

 Huge rocks the currents break, and shake 

 My flowing fields to spray — 

 White wreaths, as in a vessel' s wake. 

 Bright bubbles, full of play. 

 Dance on the top ; but soon each flake 

 Turns watery blue or gray — 

 Each bubble bursts — as on I take. 

 Up stream, my rainbow way. 

 Now in dark pools I love to lie ; 

 Now, darting, clear bright falls. 

 Feeling that I might almost fly 

 Above the woodland walls ; 

 Might almost be a bird and sail 

 Within the blue afar. 

 Until the golden day grows pale 

 And shines the evening star. 

 Tet glad am I, when poised in air. 

 Once more to tumble home. 

 Nor have I from my proper sphere 

 A truant wish to roam. 

 167 



