Over the land so many streams from his fountain-head.
There should lack but four of a hundred, if one should tell them o’er
Each after each, and from one true fountain do all these pour.
Down from the mountains high to the plains it sendeth its rills,
From the heights which be called, men say, the Amazonian Hills.
Thence over the hilly country inland-straying they flow
Ever onward, albeit their paths in manifold windings go
This way and that evermore, wheresoever on low-lying ground {980}
They may light, so roll they along; and this one afar shall be found,
And that one anear; and nameless many an one is lost