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I cannot write old verses here, Dead things a thousand years away, When all the life of the young year Is in the summer day. The roses make the world so sweet, The bees, the birds have such a tune, There's such a light and such a heat And such a joy this June, One must expand one's heart with praise, And make the memory secure Of sunshine and the woodland days And summer twilights pure. Oh listen rather! Nature's song Comes from the waters, beating tides, Green-margined rivers, and the throng Of streams on mountain-sides. So fair those water-spirits are, Such happy strength their music fills, Our joy shall be to wander far And find them on the hills.