The brook flows on, the fields are green, The flowers are blooming fresh and gay; And full of pomp the golden meads, Like fairyland, in sunlit play.

Oh, how the wild, sweet blossoms breathe! They dance and twine in the soft breeze, Where often the swirling shadows lie, Kindled by the light among the trees.

And to the river’s gentle side, Beneath the arching branches shy, The wistful nightingale sings high, A music that will never die.

• Alfred Lord Tennyson