The winding river freshening the sight
     At intervals, the trees in leafy prime;
     The distant village-roofs of blue and white,
     With intersections of quaint-fashioned beams
     All slanting crosswise, and the feudal gleams
     Of ruined turrets, barren in the light; —
     To watch the changing clouds, like clime in clime;
     Oh sweet to lie and bless the luxury of time.

     III

     Fresh blows the early breeze, our sail is full;
     A merry morning and a mighty tide. 
     Cheerily O! and past St. Goar we glide,
     Half hid in misty dawn and mountain cool. 
     The river is our own! and now the sun
     In saffron clothes the warming atmosphere;
     The sky lifts up her white veil like a nun,
     And looks upon the landscape blue and clear; —
     The lark is up; the hills, the vines in sight;
     The river broadens with his waking bliss
     And throws up islands to behold the light;
     Voices begin to rise, all hues to kiss; —
     Was ever such a happy morn as this! 
     Birds sing, we shout, flowers breathe, trees shine with one delight!

     IV

     Between the two white breasts of her we love,
     A dewy blushing rose will sometimes spring;
     Thus Nonnenwerth like an enchanted thing
     Rises mid-stream the crystal depths above. 
     On either side the waters heave and swell,
     But all is calm within the little Isle;
     Content it is to give its holy smile,
     And bless with peace the lives that in it dwell. 
     Most dear on the dark grass beneath its bower
     Of kindred trees embracing branch and bough,
     To dream of fairy foot and sudden flower;
     Or haply with a twilight on the brow,
     To muse upon the legendary hour,
     And Roland’s lonely love and Hildegard’s sad vow.

     V

     Hark! how the bitter winter breezes blow
     Round the sharp rocks and o’er the half-lifted wave,
     While all the rocky woodland branches rave
     Shrill with the piercing cold, and every cave,
     Along the icy water-margin low,
     Rings bubbling with the whirling overflow;
     And sharp the echoes answer distant cries
     Of dawning daylight and the dim sunrise,
     And the gloom-coloured clouds that stain the skies
     With pictures of a warmth, and frozen glow
     Spread over endless fields of sheeted snow;
     And white untrodden mountains shining cold,
     And muffled footpaths winding thro’ the wold,
     O’er which those wintry gusts cease not to howl and blow.

     VI

     Rare is the loveliness of slow decay! 
     With youth and beauty all must be desired,
     But ’tis the charm of things long past away,
     They leave, alone, the light they have inspired: 
     The calmness of a picture;