84 THE PHEASANT. 
Away to the woods with the silvery rind, 
And the emerald tresses afloat on the wind ! 
For ’tis joy to go to those sylvan bowers 
When summer is rich with leaves and flowers ; 
And to see, ’mid the growth of all lovely things, 
The joyous pheasant unfold his wings, 
And then cower down, as if to screen 
His gorgeous purple, gold, and green! 
The streams run on in music low, 
"Twill be joy by their flowery banks to go; 
*T will be joy to come to the calamus beds, 
Where a broken root such odour sheds ; 
And to see how the water-sedge uplifts 
Its spires and crowns—the summer’s gifts ; 
To see the loosestrife’s purple spear, 
And the wind through the waving reeds to hear. 
Then on through hazelly lanes, away 
To the light-green fields all clear of hay, 
Where along the thick hedge-side we greet, 
Tall purple vetch and meadow-sweet ; 
Past old farm-house and water-mill, 
Where the great colt’s-foot grows wild at will; 
