Do you see the road a-winding through the dear green fields below?
Hear the bridle-bells a-jingle on the horses as they go?
Then beside blue flashing rivers, where the tall reeds softly sing
Plaintive songs of weary Autumn, lyric carollings of Spring.

Down the sloped wild pines rush headlong, tossing each his ragged plume,
Plunging all its life and glory in a shadowland of gloom;
But the shadows are but shadows. hark! the bells are jingling still;
See, it ends the journey, mounting where the sunlight's on the hill.