Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.

On the Big Blackfoot River above the mouth of Belmont Creek the
banks are fringed by large Ponderosa pines. read more

On the Big Blackfoot River above the mouth of Belmont Creek the
banks are fringed by large Ponderosa pines. In the slanting sun
of late afternoon the shadows of great branches reached across
the river, and the trees took the river in their arms.

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn read more

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar
Twined amorous round the raptures scene.

I love any discourse of rivers, and fish and fishing.

I love any discourse of rivers, and fish and fishing.

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.

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.

He who does not know his way to the sea should take a river for
his guide.
[Fr., read more

He who does not know his way to the sea should take a river for
his guide.
[Fr., Les rivieres sont des chemins qui marchant et qui portent
ou l'on veut aller.]

Yet I will look upon thy face again,
My own romantic Bronx, and it will be
A read more

Yet I will look upon thy face again,
My own romantic Bronx, and it will be
A face more pleasant than the face of men.
Thy waves are old companions, I shall see
A well remembered form in each old tree
And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.