Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of green, / Where you lie in the sun's embrace; / And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean / To touch your dimpled face.

Only yield when you must, never "give up the ship," but fight on to the last "with a stiff upper lip!

And never since harvests were ripened, / Or laborers born, / Have men gathered figs of the thistle, / Or grapes of the thorn!

Books were put out, and 'had a run,' / Like coinage from the mint; / But which could fill the place of one, / That one they wouldn't print?

One sweetly solemn thought, comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home today, than I ever have been before.

Do we call the star lost that is hidden / In the great light of morn?

Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of green, / Where you lie in the sun's embrace; / And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean / To touch your dimpled face.