THE LIMA RIVER.
URMURING, murmuring, mournfully murmuring,Swift on thy way to the sea;
So like human sorrow, which ever may borrow
From the torrent, its simile—
The soul not free like thee.
Rushing, rushing, foaming madly, and rushing,
The river flows on to the sea;
The west wind is blowing, the foam-wreaths are throwing
Their colours in rainbows to me—
The soul not free like thee.
The river flows on to the sea;
The west wind is blowing, the foam-wreaths are throwing
Their colours in rainbows to me—
The soul not free like thee.
Passing, passing, so hurriedly passing,
Kissing stray weeds at my feet,
Kissing stray weeds at my feet,
