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.
Passing, passing, so hurriedly passing, Kissing stray weeds at my feet,
