When the dimpled water slippeth, Full of laughter on its way, And her wing the wagtail dippeth, Running by the brink at play; When the poplar leaves atremble Turn their edges to the light, And the far-off clouds resemble Veils of gauze most clear and white; And the sunbeams fall and flatter Woodland moss and branches brown, And the glossy finches chatter Up and down, up and down: Though the heart be not attending, Having music of her own, On the grass, through meadows wending, It is sweet to walk alone.