Above St Irenee

I rested on the breezy height, 
  In cooler shade and clearer air, 
    Beneath a maple tree; 
      Below, the mighty river took 
Its sparkling shade and sheeny light 
    Down to the sombre sea, 
      And clustered by the leaping brook 
    The roofs of white St. Irénée. 
 
The sapphire hills on either hand 
  Broke down upon the silver tide,
    The river ran in streams, 
      In streams of mingled azure-gray 
With here a broken purple band, 
    And whorls of drab, and beams 
      Of shattered silver light astray,
    Where far away the south shore gleams. 
 
I walked a mile along the height 
  Between the flowers upon the road, 
    Asters and golden-rod; 
      And in the gardens pinks and stocks,
And gaudy poppies shaking light, 
    And daisies blooming near the sod, 
      And lowly pansies set in flocks 
    With purple monkshood overawed. 
 
And there I saw a little child 
  Between the tossing golden-rod, 
    Coming along to me; 
      She was a tender little thing, 
So fragile-sweet, so Mary-mild, 
    I thought her name Marie; 
      No other name methought could cling 
    To any one so fair as she. 
 
And when we came at last to meet, 
  I spoke a simple word to her, 
    “Where are you going, Marie?”
    She answered and she did not smile, 
But oh, her voice,—her voice so sweet, 
    “Down to St. Irénée,” 
    And so passed on to walk her mile, 
  And left the lonely road to me.