rock and rill.
65
And still he will not let her go:
But she may chide and sing,
And o'er him liquid freshness throw,
Amid her murmuring.
But she may chide and sing,
And o'er him liquid freshness throw,
Amid her murmuring.
The harebell sees herself no more
In waters clear at play;
Yet never she such azure wore,
Till wept on by the spray.
In waters clear at play;
Yet never she such azure wore,
Till wept on by the spray.
And many a woodland violet
Stays charmed upon the bank;
Her thoughtful blue eye brimming wet,
The rock and rill to thank.
Stays charmed upon the bank;
Her thoughtful blue eye brimming wet,
The rock and rill to thank.
The rill is blessing in her talk
What half she held a wrong,—
The happy trouble of the rock
That makes her life a song.
What half she held a wrong,—
The happy trouble of the rock
That makes her life a song.
