When friendly summer calls again
Calls again
Her little fifers to these hills
We'll go - we two - to that arched fane
Of leafage where they prime their bills
Before they start to flood the plain
With quavers,, minims, shakes, and trills
'- We'll go', I sing; but who shall say
What may not chance before that day!

And we shall see the waters spring
Waters spring
From chinks the scrubby copses crown;
And we shall trace their oncreeping
To where the cascade tumbles down
And sends the bobbing growths aswing
And ferns not quite but almost drown
'- We shall', I say; but who may sing
Of what another moon will bring!