Far above us where a jay <br /> Screams his matins to the day, <br /> Capped with gold and amethyst, <br /> Like a vapor from the forge <br /> Of a giant somewhere hid, <br /> Out of hearing of the clang <br /> Of his hammer, skirts of mist <br /> Slowly up the woody gorge <br /> Lift and hang. <br /> <br /> Softly as a cloud we go, <br /> Sky above and sky below, <br /> Down the river; and the dip <br /> Of the paddles scarcely breaks, <br /> With the little silvery drip <br /> Of the water as it shakes <br /> From the blades, the crystal deep <br /> Of the silence of the morn, <br /> Of the forest yet asleep; <br /> And the river reaches borne <br /> In a mirror, purple gray, <br /> Sheer away <br /> To the misty line of light, <br /> Where the forest and the stream <br /> In the shadow meet and plight, <br /> Like a dream. <br /> <br /> From amid a stretch of reeds, <br /> Where the lazy river sucks <br /> All the water as it bleeds <br /> From a little curling creek, <br /> And the muskrats peer and sneak <br /> In around the sunken wrecks <br /> Of a tree that swept the skies <br /> Long ago, <br /> On a sudden seven ducks <br /> With a splashy rustle rise, <br /> Stretching out their seven necks, <br /> One before, and two behind, <br /> And the others all arow, <br /> And as steady as the wind <br /> With a swivelling whistle go, <br /> Through the purple shadow led, <br /> Till we only hear their whir <br /> In behind a rocky spur, <br /> Just ahead.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/morning-on-the-li-vre/
