There’s a dear old river
Where I love to go,
Oars heaving slowly
As I lean back low.
Rest awhile,
And see the willows
Bow their weeping heads;
Trickling waters make their music,
While clouds become floating beds.
Not even a bird could follow
Those dream-like journeys ~
Of that dear old river and me.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 4:22 PM UTC
There’s a dear old river
Where I love to go,
Oars heaving slowly
As I lean back low.
Rest awhile,
And see the willows
Bow their weeping heads;
Trickling waters make their music,
While clouds become floating beds.
Not even a bird could follow
Those dream-like journeys ~
Of that dear old river and me.
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