How sweet to move at summer's eve
By Clyde's meandering stream,
When Sol in joy is seen read more

How sweet to move at summer's eve
By Clyde's meandering stream,
When Sol in joy is seen to leave
The earth with crimson beam;
When islands that wandered far
Above his sea couch lie,
And here and there some gem-like star
Re-opes its sparkling eye.

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.

Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black,
Cutting through the jungle with a golden track.

Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black,
Cutting through the jungle with a golden track.

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

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

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.]

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.

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.

"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.

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.