When friendly summer calls again,
 	Calls again
 Her little fifers to these hills,
 We'll go - we two - to that arched fane
 Of leafage where they prime their bills
 Before they start to flood the plain
 With quavers,, minims, shakes, and trills.
 	'- We'll go', I sing; but who shall say
 	What may not chance before that day!

 And we shall see the waters spring,
 	Waters spring
 	From chinks the scrubby copses crown;
 And we shall trace their oncreeping
 To where the cascade tumbles down
 And sends the bobbing growths aswing,
 And ferns not quite but almost drown.
 	'- We shall', I say; but who may sing
 	Of what another moon will bring!