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A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. - Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Ancient Mariner (pt. V, st. 18) The streams, rejoiced that winter's work is done, Talk of to-morrow's cowslips as they run. - Ebenezer Elliott ("The Corn Law Rhymer"), The Village Patriarch--Love and Other Poems--Spring From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take. - Thomas Gray, The Progress of Poesy (I, i, l. 3) Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones. - Thomas Hood, Town and Country (st. 9) . . . they passed along by a river's side, which gently running made sweet music with the enamelled stones, and seemed to give a gentle kiss to every surge he overtook in his watery pilgrimage. - Richard Johnson, Famous History of the Seven Champions of Christendom (pt. III, ch. XII) Thou hastenest down between the hills to meet me at the road, The secret scarcely lisping of thy beautiful abode Among the pines and mosses of yonder shadowy height, Where thou dost sparkle into song, and fill the woods with light. - Lucy Larcom, Friend Brook (st. 1) See, how the stream has overflowed Its banks, and o'er the meadow road Is spreading far and wide! - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Christus--The Golden Legend (pt. III, sc. 7, The Nativity) The music of the brook silenced all conversation. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Kavanagh (ch. XXI) I wandered by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still. - Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton, The Brookside The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know'st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with th' enameled stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge, He overtaketh in his pilgrimage. And so by many winding nooks he strays With willing sport to the wild ocean. Then let me go and hinder not my course. I'll be as patient as a gentle stream And make a pastime of each weary step, Till the last step have brought me to my love; And there I'll rest, as after much turmoil A blessed soul doth in Elysium. - William Shakespeare, The Two Gentlemen of Verona (Julia at II, vii) I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. - Lord Alfred Tennyson, The Brook Brook! whose society the poet seeks, Intent his wasted spirits to renew; And whom the curious painter doth pursue Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks. - William Wordsworth, Brook! Whose Society the Poet Seeks
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