There is, upon my homeward walk, a place
Where I must always stop; a deep, still pond,
From whose green banks the katydids respond,
With their sharp treble, to the bull-frogs' bass.
O beautiful the spot where the wild stream,
Merged in these calmer waters, finds its end!
Here, in the shadowy eve, the willows bend
In moveless shapes, like phantoms of a dream.
Not far off stands a mill among the trees,
(Of laboring strength with loveliness the type)
And ofttimes have I watched, lying at mine ease,
The white steam curling from the iron pipe,
Unfolding its thin substance to the air.
Like some tall, graceful plant, up-springing there.