Many a treasure is found by the river,
The gems of a sunray which gleams on forever,
The warble of birds in the play of the breeze
And the amber of ants in the heart of tree.
Clover and cane fill the bank with their heads,
And spiders build palaces made out of webs;
The dew is the diadem borne by a cloud;
The honey of bees, a king's burial shroud.
Collanades shine in the twistings of oaks,
The woodpecker's beat is what men's minstrels wrote,
And the crown of a queen is the violets which fray
The edge of the bank in the heat of the day.
The noble brown buck and the maidenly stork,
The rush of the fray where the streams swiftly fork,
The bugle to duty from late August storms;
Such is the river in all of its forms.