The River
Chuckling, singing, flowing fast,
Whirling, swirling, free at last,
Round the mountain, tall peaks crown,
Past green forests lending life,
Across the plains, giving hope,
Past my window, taking strife,
Luring in the antelope.
Butterflies on fallen leaves,
Float as if it were their ship,
In the water ivy weaves,
To catch them if they should slip.
Chuckling you bid goodbye,
To run to vales where bright lakes lie.