Thou singest by the gleaming isles, <br />By woods, and fields of corn, <br />Thou singest, and the sunlight smiles <br />Upon my birthday morn. <br /> <br />But I within a city, I, <br />So full of vague unrest, <br />Would almost give my life to lie <br />An hour upon upon thy breast. <br /> <br />To let the wherry listless go, <br />And, wrapt in dreamy joy, <br />Dip, and surge idly to and fro, <br />Like the red harbor-buoy; <br /> <br />To sit in happy indolence, <br />To rest upon the oars, <br />And catch the heavy earthy scents <br />That blow from summer shores; <br /> <br />To see the rounded sun go down, <br />And with its parting fires <br />Light up the windows of the town <br />And burn the tapering spires; <br /> <br />And then to hear the muffled tolls <br />From steeples slim and white, <br />And watch, among the Isles of Shoals, <br />The Beacon's orange light. <br /> <br />O River! flowing to the main <br />Through woods, and fields of corn, <br />Hear thou my longing and my pain <br />This sunny birthday morn; <br /> <br />And take this song which fancy shapes <br />To music like thine own, <br />And sing it to the cliffs and capes <br />And crags where I am known!<br /><br />Thomas Bailey Aldrich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/piscataqua-river/
