| Looking-glass River |
| Robert Louis Stevenson |
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Smooth it glides upon its travel,
Here a wimple, there a gleam-- O the clean gravel! O the smooth stream! |
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Sailing blossoms, silver fishes,
Pave pools as clear as air-- How a child wishes To live down there! |
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We can see our colored faces
Floating on the shaken pool Down in cool places, Dim and very cool; |
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Till a wind or water wrinkle,
Dipping marten, plumping trout, Spreads in a twinkle And blots all out. |
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See the rings pursue each other;
All below grows black as night, Just as if mother Had blown out the light! |
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Patience, children, just a minute--
See the spreading circles die; The stream and all in it Will clear by-and-by. |
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