Down from whose boughs dark shadows fell,
And hid her face.

Four skiffs are out on the moonlit stream,
And their oars like bars of silver gleam,
As they dip and flash and kiss the river,
As swallows do, till the moonbeams quiver.
Then the ripples die,
And the girlish cry
Floats gaily again to the summer sky.

"Ready? Go!"
As the arrow springs from the straightened bow,
The skiffs dart off for the distant goal:
The oars are bent like blades of steel,
And the hissing waters, cleft in twain,
Curl away astern in a feathery train,
While girlish laughter, peal on peal,
Rings over the river and over the shore,
And from the island the echoes roll.
We hear the mysterious voice again.
"We have won! we have won!
Will you race once more?"

The water drips in golden rain
From the blade of the resting oar,
Again we take, our place, and again
That clear voice wakes the shore:
"Go!" And we bend to our oars once more,
And banks fly past, till the gleaming meadows