My boat swings out and back, Moored among mint and rush. The river`s ruffled speed Laughs in the white wind`s track. My idle fingers crush A crinkled, scented reed. Who needs his fate provoke? A spirit in all things flows, And I with them flow too, Content to eye long boughs Of silvering willow stroke Slowly the summer blue.SourceThe script ran 0.002 seconds.
The script ran 0.002 seconds.