The Wabash

There is a river singing in between Bright fringes of pawpaw and sycamore, That stir to fragrant winds on either shore, Where tall blue herons stretch lithe necks, and lean Over clear currents flowing cool and thin Through the clean furrows of the pebbly floor. My own glad river. Though unclassic, still Haunted of merry gods whose pipings fill With music all thy golden willow-brakes! Above thee halcyon lifts his regal crest; The tulip-tree flings thee its flower-flakes, The tall flag over thee its lances shakes: With every charm of beauty thou art blest, O happiest river of the happy West!