Thereis a hill beside the silver Thames,Shady with birch and beech and odorous pine:And brilliant underfoot with thousand gemsSteeply the thickets to his floods decline.Straight trees in every placeTheir thick tops interlace,And pendant branches trail their foliage fineUpon his watery face.Swift from the sweltering pasturage he flows:His stream, alert to seek the pleasant shade,Pictures his gentle purpose, as he goesStraight to the caverned pool his toil has made.His winter floods lay bareThe stout roots in the air:His summer streams are cool, when they have playedAmong their fibrous hair.A rushy island guards the sacred bower,And hides it from the meadow, where in peaceThe lazy cows wrench many a scented flower,Robbing the golden market of the bees:And laden barges floatBy banks of myosote;And scented flags and golden flower-de-lysDelay the loitering boat.And on this side the island, where the poolEddies away, are tangled mass on massThe water-weeds, that net the fishes coolAnd scarce allow a narrow stream to pass;Where spreading crowfoot marsThe drowning nenuphars,Waving the tassels of her silken grassBelow her silver stars.But in the purple pool there nothing grows,Not the white water-lily spoked with gold;Though best she loves the hollows, and well knowsOn quiet streams her broad shields to unfold:Yet should her roots but tryWithin these deeps to lie,Not her long reaching stalk could ever holdHer waxen head so high.Sometimes an angler comes, and drops his hookWithin its hidden depths, and ’gainst a treeLeaning his rod, reads in some pleasant book,Forgetting soon his pride of fishery;And dreams, or falls asleep,While curious fishes peepAbout his nibbled bait, or scornfullyDart off and rise and leap.And sometimes by the pathway through the treesAn aged dame at evening trudges home:And merry voices greet her, and she seesHer dear grandchildren, down the hill that comeTo meet her, and to bearHer basket home with care,Divining that, of all her treasures, someWill be for them to share.Else, he that wishes solitude is safe,Whether he bathe at morning in the stream:Or lead his love there when the hot hours chafeThe meadows, busy with a blurring steam;Or watch, as fades the light,The gibbous moon grow bright,Until her magic rays dance in a dream,And glorify the night.Where is this bower beside the silver Thames?O pool and flowery thickets, hear my vow!O trees of freshest foliage and straight stems,No sharer of my secret I allow:Lest ere I come the whileStrange feet your shades defile;Or lest the burly oarsman turn his prowWithin your guardian isle.

Thereis a hill beside the silver Thames,

Shady with birch and beech and odorous pine:

And brilliant underfoot with thousand gems

Steeply the thickets to his floods decline.

Straight trees in every place

Their thick tops interlace,

And pendant branches trail their foliage fine

Upon his watery face.

Swift from the sweltering pasturage he flows:His stream, alert to seek the pleasant shade,Pictures his gentle purpose, as he goesStraight to the caverned pool his toil has made.His winter floods lay bareThe stout roots in the air:His summer streams are cool, when they have playedAmong their fibrous hair.

Swift from the sweltering pasturage he flows:

His stream, alert to seek the pleasant shade,

Pictures his gentle purpose, as he goes

Straight to the caverned pool his toil has made.

His winter floods lay bare

The stout roots in the air:

His summer streams are cool, when they have played

Among their fibrous hair.

A rushy island guards the sacred bower,And hides it from the meadow, where in peaceThe lazy cows wrench many a scented flower,Robbing the golden market of the bees:And laden barges floatBy banks of myosote;And scented flags and golden flower-de-lysDelay the loitering boat.

A rushy island guards the sacred bower,

And hides it from the meadow, where in peace

The lazy cows wrench many a scented flower,

Robbing the golden market of the bees:

And laden barges float

By banks of myosote;

And scented flags and golden flower-de-lys

Delay the loitering boat.

And on this side the island, where the poolEddies away, are tangled mass on massThe water-weeds, that net the fishes coolAnd scarce allow a narrow stream to pass;Where spreading crowfoot marsThe drowning nenuphars,Waving the tassels of her silken grassBelow her silver stars.

And on this side the island, where the pool

Eddies away, are tangled mass on mass

The water-weeds, that net the fishes cool

And scarce allow a narrow stream to pass;

Where spreading crowfoot mars

The drowning nenuphars,

Waving the tassels of her silken grass

Below her silver stars.

But in the purple pool there nothing grows,Not the white water-lily spoked with gold;Though best she loves the hollows, and well knowsOn quiet streams her broad shields to unfold:Yet should her roots but tryWithin these deeps to lie,Not her long reaching stalk could ever holdHer waxen head so high.

But in the purple pool there nothing grows,

Not the white water-lily spoked with gold;

Though best she loves the hollows, and well knows

On quiet streams her broad shields to unfold:

Yet should her roots but try

Within these deeps to lie,

Not her long reaching stalk could ever hold

Her waxen head so high.

Sometimes an angler comes, and drops his hookWithin its hidden depths, and ’gainst a treeLeaning his rod, reads in some pleasant book,Forgetting soon his pride of fishery;And dreams, or falls asleep,While curious fishes peepAbout his nibbled bait, or scornfullyDart off and rise and leap.

Sometimes an angler comes, and drops his hook

Within its hidden depths, and ’gainst a tree

Leaning his rod, reads in some pleasant book,

Forgetting soon his pride of fishery;

And dreams, or falls asleep,

While curious fishes peep

About his nibbled bait, or scornfully

Dart off and rise and leap.

And sometimes by the pathway through the treesAn aged dame at evening trudges home:And merry voices greet her, and she seesHer dear grandchildren, down the hill that comeTo meet her, and to bearHer basket home with care,Divining that, of all her treasures, someWill be for them to share.

And sometimes by the pathway through the trees

An aged dame at evening trudges home:

And merry voices greet her, and she sees

Her dear grandchildren, down the hill that come

To meet her, and to bear

Her basket home with care,

Divining that, of all her treasures, some

Will be for them to share.

Else, he that wishes solitude is safe,Whether he bathe at morning in the stream:Or lead his love there when the hot hours chafeThe meadows, busy with a blurring steam;Or watch, as fades the light,The gibbous moon grow bright,Until her magic rays dance in a dream,And glorify the night.

Else, he that wishes solitude is safe,

Whether he bathe at morning in the stream:

Or lead his love there when the hot hours chafe

The meadows, busy with a blurring steam;

Or watch, as fades the light,

The gibbous moon grow bright,

Until her magic rays dance in a dream,

And glorify the night.

Where is this bower beside the silver Thames?O pool and flowery thickets, hear my vow!O trees of freshest foliage and straight stems,No sharer of my secret I allow:Lest ere I come the whileStrange feet your shades defile;Or lest the burly oarsman turn his prowWithin your guardian isle.

Where is this bower beside the silver Thames?

O pool and flowery thickets, hear my vow!

O trees of freshest foliage and straight stems,

No sharer of my secret I allow:

Lest ere I come the while

Strange feet your shades defile;

Or lest the burly oarsman turn his prow

Within your guardian isle.

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