Sending glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,
Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice
In its own being.
W. C. Bryant.
36. A damsel singing to herself
A song of love by snatches; breaking off
If but a flower, an insect on the wing
Please for an instant, then as carelessly
The strain resuming.