Concentration

A hut green-shadowed among firs, --
A sun that slopes in amber air, --
Lone wandering, my head I bare,
While some far thrush the silence stirs.

No flocks of wild geese thither fly,
And she -- ah! she is far away;
Yet all my thoughts behold her stay,
As in the golden hours gone by.

The clouds scarce dim the water’s sheen,
The moon-bathed islands wanly show,
And sweet words falter to and fro --
Though the great River rolls between.