That lingered lullingly beneath its worn,
Wild-blossomed banks awhile, and then would gleam
Away and windingly, like music in a dream.
Slow sloping shores, o’er-velveted with green—
Old oaks, which, sighing softly, seemed aware
That summer is not always, as between
Their branches breathed the wing-unweary air—
Blue skies that bent above, serenely fair—
And tinklings faint of distant bells among
The snowy sheep and herds of kine, that where