Hush, for thou movest restlessly
The too light sleeper, Memory!

Whate’er thou hast to tell me, yet

Sweeter than all thy breath of balm
An hour of unremembering calm!

Blowing over the roofs, and down
The bright streets of this inland town,

A note of waves and rushing tides,
Where past the dikes the red flood glides,

To brim the shining channels far

Once more I snuff the salt, I stand
On the long dikes of Westmoreland;

I watch the narrowing flats, the strip
Of red clay at the water’s lip;

Along the ridges of the dikes
Wind-beaten scant sea-grass, and spikes

Of last year’s mullein; down the slopes

Of blue vetch, and convolvulus,
And matted roses glorious.

The liberal blooms o’erbrim my hands;
I walk the level, wide marsh-lands;

In sudden, long, pale lines, that flee
Up the deep breast of this green sea.

I listen to the bird that stirs

Whose summer din, before my feet
Subsiding, wakes on my retreat.

Again the droning bees hum by;
Still-winged, the gray hawk wheels on high;

Blown back to olden days, I fain
Would quaff the olden joys again;

But all the olden sweetness not

Wind of this summer afternoon,
Thou hast recalled my childhood’s June;

My heart—still is it satisfied
By all the golden summer-tide?

Or hast thou any power to bear
Even a little of my care?—

Ever so little of this weight

Ah, poor thy gift indeed, unless
Thou bring the old child-heartedness,—

And such a gift to bring is given,
Alas, to no wind under heaven!

Sweet is thy voice; but yet, but yet—
Of all ’twere sweetest to forget!

Fredericton, N.B.