BEOWN WATERS 



MIST-WREATHED lakes, with the white 

 throat piercing the dawn ; or dark under 

 the noon-day breeze ; or flaming to the 

 western sky: the many-noted murmur 

 of water running swiftly over little 

 stones : dim thunder of rapid, swelling 

 and dying : sweet breath of a clean and 

 wholesome world. These kind memory 

 brings to us, with the very feel of the 

 air, the wind's caress, the sound of its 

 going in the trees. 



Beneath the snows of full thirty 

 winters, but not buried too deeply for 

 a swift resurrection, lies that evening 

 when you fished on and on, till the glow 

 faded above the northern hills and the 

 river lost shore-lines in the dusk. How 

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