Across the vales of sweeping grass
Beyond the summer-swept coastline,
The lines of flocking thrushes pass
Between the rocks and Scottish pines.

A whistle calls the thistle-shrub
Between the mother and her cub,
And as the bears move up the stream
She leaps, and tumbles into steam.

The waterfall's a sainted arm
Rushing through the blushing woods.
The summer breeze, with all its charm
Has never left, and never should.