The Spell

OUR boat has drifted with the stream That stirs the river's full sweet bosom And now she stays where gold flags gleam By meadow-sweet's pale foam of blossom. Sedge-warblers sing the sun the song The nightingale sings to the shadows; Forget-me-nots grow all along The fringes of the happy meadows. See the wet lilies' golden beads! The river-nymphs for necklace string them, And in the sighing of the reeds You hear the song their lovers sing them. Gold sun, blue air, green shimmering leaves, The weir's old song--the wood's old story-- Such spells the enchanting Summer weaves She holds me in a web of glory. And you--with head against my arm And subtle wiles that seek to hold me-- Not even you can add a charm To the sweet sorceries that enfold me. Yet lean there still! The hour is ours; If we should move the charm might shiver And joyless sun and scentless flowers Might mock a disenchanted river.