GURGLE, gurgle, gurgle, Over ledge and stone; How I'm going, flowing, Westward, all alone; All alone, but happy, Happy and hale am I, Clasped by the emerald meadows, Flushed by the golden sky! No kindred brook is calling, To woo these tides in glee; I hear no neigh boring voices Of inland rill, or sea; But the sedges thrill above me, And where I blithely pass, Coy winds, like nymphs in ambush, Seem whispering through the grass. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle; Hark! the tiny swell Of wavelets softly, silverly Toned like a fairy bell, Whose every note, dropped sweetly In mellowed glamour round, Echo hath caught and harvested In airy sheaves of sound! |