Stepping Stones

Those stepping-stones, that cross the meadow-streams,
Look picturesque amid Spring's golden gleams,
Where strides the traveller with a weary pace;
And boy, with laughing leisure in his face,
Sits on the midmost stone, in very whim,
To catch the struttles, that beneath him swim.
Even stones across the hollow lakes are bare,
And winter floods no more rave dangers there;
But, 'mid the scum left where it roared and fell,
The schoolboy hunts to find the pooty shell.
Yet there the boisterous geese, with golden broods,
Hiss fierce and daring in their summer moods:
The boys pull off their hats, while passing by,
In vain to fright — themselves being forced to fly.