Over the pebbles the brown brooks flow, 

 Singing their cool songs, sweet and low : 

 From white-boled beech, and elm top tall 

 On lilied shallows deep shades fall. 

 In swaying cradles white eggs rest 

 Safe and warm 'neath the brooding breast; 

 Sweetbriar lifts her winsome face, 

 The brambles weave their lines of grace, 

 All joys are here, each dear delight, 

 And April's faith in May is sight. 



