“Sweet Themmes, runne softly till I ende my song.”
Past town and village, cot and lonely farm,
His silver stream with murm’ring music goes;
Singing glad anthems, full of drowsy charm;
Sweet songs of praise, unheeded not by those
Who know his banks full well, who often love
To roam his course, his marge to pace along,
While Spenser’s line re-echoes as we rove:
“Sweet Themmes, runne softly till I ende my song.”