  Why do I sing? I know not why, my friend; The ancient rivers, rivers of renown, A royal largess to the sea roll down, And on those liberal highways nations send Their tributes to the world,—stored corn and wine, Gold-dust, the wealth of pearls, and orient spar, And myrrh, and ivory, and cinnabar, And dyes to make a presence-chamber shine. But in the woodlands, where the wild-flowers are, The rivulets, they must have their innocent will Who all the summer hours are singing still, The birds care for them, and sometimes a star, And should a tired child rest beside the stream Sweet memories would slide into his dream. |
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