Slow winds our Indian stream through meadows green,
By bending willows, tangled fen and brake,
Smooth field and farmstead doth its flow forsake;
’Twas in far woodpaths Ion, too, was seen,
But oftenest found at Walden’s emerald lake,
(The murmuring pines inverted in its sheen;)
There in his skiff he rippling rhymes did make,
Its answering shores echoing the verse between:
Full-voiced the meaning of the wizard song,
Far wood and wave and shore, with kindred will,
Strophe, antistrophe, in turn prolong:—
Now wave and shore and wood are mute and chill,
Ion, melodious bard, hath dropt his quill,
His harp is silent, and his voice is still.