I know a shining meadow stream
That winds beneath an Eastern hill,
And all year long in sun or gloom
Its murmuring voice is never still.
–
The summer dies more gently there,
The April flowers are earlier,-
The first warm rain-wind from the Sound
Sets all their eager hearts astir.
–
And there when lengthening twilights fall
As softly as a wild bird’s wing,
Across the valley in the dusk
I hear the silver flute of spring.
– The Flute of Spring by William Bliss Carman
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