The rivulet shone in the morning sun,
And touching them tenderly, one by one,
With dewy lips, like the mountain mist,
Each waiting face as she passed she kissed.
Among the shadows of pine and fir
A stream danced merrily on her way;
A thrush from his hermitage sang to her:
“Why dost thou haste? Sweet messenger, stay!”
The noontide shadows were cool and deep,
The pathway stony, the hillside steep,