to me -
There is a little river, fed by rills
That winds among the hills,
And turns and suns itself unceasingly,
And wanders through the cornfields wooingly,
For it has nothing else to do, but play
Along its cheery way:
Not like great rivers that in locks are
On whom hard man doth heavy burdens lay,
And fret their waters into foam and spray.
This river's life is one long holiday
All the year round.
Listen and long -
It hears the bells of many churches chime,
It has a pleasant time:
The trees that bow to it their branches
Hide many birds that make its spring one
And orchard boughs let fall their flowery
To float away by stealth,
And land in tiny coves a mile below,
Or round and round the stems of rushes veer
Like snowy foam, but truly none is here,
So calmly gurgle on the waters clear
With endless flow.