The little brooks run babbling by,
Their margin border’d beauteously
With trees, in shade abounding:
The sheep’s low bleat, and shout of joy
Sent forth by idle shepherd-boy,
From meadows green come sounding.
Th’ unwearied bees, on busy wing,
From flower to flower flit murmuring,
And seek their honied treasure;
While on the vine, from day to day,