At noon, within the dusty town,
Where the wild river rushes down,
  And thunders hoarsely all day long,
I think of thee, my hermit stream,
Low singing in thy summer dream
  Thine idle, sweet, old, tranquil song.

Northward, Katahdin’s chasmed pile
Looms through thy low, long, leafy aisle;
  Eastward, Olamon’s summit shines;...