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At last the Muses rose, . . . And scattered, . . . as they flew, Their blooming wreaths from fair Valclusa's bowers To Arno's myrtle border.

Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those. The bursting tears my heart declare; Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar Twined amorous round the raptures scene.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree; Where Alph, the sacred river ran, Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.

Yet I will look upon thy face again, My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men. Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well remembered form in each old tree And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.

And see the rivers how they run Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,-- Wave succeeding wave, they go A various journey to the deep, Like human life to endless sleep!

The fountains of sacred rivers flow upwards

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee;" The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam And all alone went she.

Out of the hills of Habersham, Down the valleys of Hall, I hurry amain to reach the plain; Run the rapid and leap the fall, Split at the rock, and together again Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, And flee from folly on every side With a lover's pain to attain the plain, Far from the hills of Habersham, Far from the valleys of Hall.

Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black, Cutting through the jungle with a golden track.

Two ways the rivers Leap down to different seas, and as they roll Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence Becomes a benefaction to the towns They visit, wandering silently among them, Like patriarchs old among their shining tents.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.

On the Big Blackfoot River above the mouth of Belmont Creek the banks are fringed by large Ponderosa pines. In the slanting sun of late afternoon the shadows of great branches reached across the river, and the trees took the river in their arms.

By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodies birds sing madrigals.

How sweet to move at summer's eve By Clyde's meandering stream, When Sol in joy is seen to leave The earth with crimson beam; When islands that wandered far Above his sea couch lie, And here and there some gem-like star Re-opes its sparkling eye.

He who does not know his way to the sea should take a river for his guide.

Rivers are roads that move and carry us whither we wish to go.

Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd, And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

Where stray ye, Muses! in what lawn or grove, . . . . In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides, Or else where Cam his winding vales divides?