Volume 146 — BELOW THE WEIR.

Beyond the punt the swallows go Like blue-black arrows to and fro, Now stooping where the rushes grow, Now flashing o'er a shallow; And overhead in blue and white High Spring and Summer hold delight; "All right!" the black-cap calls, "All right!" His mate says from the sallow. O dancing stream, O diamond day, O charm of lilac-time and May. O whispering meadows green and gay, O fair things past believing! Could but the world stand still, stand still When over wood and stream and hill This morn's eternal miracle The rosy Hours are weaving! Eternal, for I like to think That mayflowers, crimson, white and pink, When I am dust the boughs shall prink, On days to live and die for; That sun and cloud, as now, shall veer, And streams run tumbling off the weir, Where still the mottled trout rolls clear For other men to try for. I like to think, when I shall go To this essential dust, that so I yet may share in flowers that blow, And with such brave sights mingle, If tossed by summer breeze on high I'm carried where the cuckoos cry And dropped beside old Thames to lie A sand-grain on a shingle. Meanwhile the swallows flash and skim Like blue-black arrows notched and trim, And splendid kingcups lift a brim Of gold to king or peasant, And 'neath a sky of blue and white High Spring with Summer weaves delight; "All right!" the black-cap calls, "all right!" And life is very pleasant.