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Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river,
Thy banks' purest stream shall be dear to me ever.
Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river,
Thy banks' purest stream shall be dear to me ever.
Two ways the rivers
Leap down to different seas, and as they roll
Grow deep and still, read more
Two ways the rivers
Leap down to different seas, and as they roll
Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence
Becomes a benefaction to the towns
They visit, wandering silently among them,
Like patriarchs old among their shining tents.
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
A read more
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
A small Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
How bright the sunshine dances in its joy,
O'er the still flow of this majestic river!
How bright the sunshine dances in its joy,
O'er the still flow of this majestic river!
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree;
Where Alph, the sacred river ran,
read more
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree;
Where Alph, the sacred river ran,
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those.
The bursting tears read more
Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those.
The bursting tears my heart declare;
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr.
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle read more
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee;"
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam
And all alone went she.
The fountains of sacred rivers flow upwards (i.e., everything is
turned topsy turvy.)
The fountains of sacred rivers flow upwards (i.e., everything is
turned topsy turvy.)
At last the Muses rose, . . . And scattered, . . . as they flew,
Their blooming wreaths read more
At last the Muses rose, . . . And scattered, . . . as they flew,
Their blooming wreaths from fair Valclusa's bowers
To Arno's myrtle border.