The Singing Garden

The Blue Kingfisher

C.J. Dennis

WHERE the little river gleaming
    Thro’ its shadows, green and cool,
Broadens to the quiet dreaming
    Of a little shady pool;
There an azure jewel burning
    O’er the waters you may spy,
Never moving, never turning:
    ’Tis the silent fisher, I.

Head aloft above the river,
    With an apathetic air,
Not the smallest quirk nor quiver
    Warns you of my presence there.
Mayhap you will think me sleeping—
    Dreaming summer days away—
Till you mark a keen eye peeping
    Where the tell-tale eddies play.

Now a dive, a sudden darting,
    Now a flash of gold and blue,
And the placid waters parting
    Let my gleaming body thro’.
Then, long ere the ripples, spreading,
    Circle to the pool’s green lip
Back to safety I am heading;
    And the kill is in my grip.

So I haunt the cool, dark places
    By the river, from that hour
When the dawn’s bright finger traces
    Fairy lights above my bower,
Till the western hilltops redden,
    Fade, and vanish I am there.
And, the far skies, growing leaden,
    Bid me seek my secret lair.

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