The streams, the dancing streams, How they roll and shine, Like youth's fairest dreams, When youth is most divine! Clearness where their bed is 'Mid pebbles in glossy ranks, Brightness on their eddies, Blossoms on their banks. Look within the valley, Many a charm is there-- The winding, shaded alley, The woodbine glist'ning fair; The berries' crimson flush, The wild birds' cadence low, But, chief of all, the gush Of the streamlet's singing flow. Stand beneath the mountains, And down each craggy side, From their secret fountains, See lines of silver glide-- Mark how the ripples fling Their sparkles round, and say If there is anything More beautiful than they. List in night's deep hushing, The season time of dreams, What are these come rushing? The troubled, sleepless streams! Now their waters flashing, Like starry-spangled hairs-- Rolling, bounding, dashing-- What music like to theirs? Oh! in the sheltered glen, Or on the hill-side fair, When spring flowers bloom, or when The summer birds are there In all that we may see, 'Neath morn's or evening's beams, Can aught in nature be More lovely than the streams?
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Published in 1999 by Dennis McCarthy
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