Spring Salmon

It's oh, but I'm dreaming 
Of grey water streaming, 
Great rivers that go gleaming 
Where brown the heather blows, 
Ere May's southern graces 
Rub out the last white traces 
From high and mountain places 
Of stubborn, storm-packed snows! 

The chill wind that searches 
The low-lying birches, 
The old red grouse that perches 
And swaggers in the sun; 
I'm fain for its blowing, 
I'm restless for his crowing, 
And it's I that would be going 
Where the spring salmon run! 

And oh, were they bulking 
Bright silver, or sulking — 
In the snow-broth a-skulking, 
I would care not at all, 
I'd hear the falls ringing, 
I'd see the pine-tops swinging 
In a wind that's filled with singing 
When the green plover call!