AUGUST TWENTY-FIFTH

On the stream whose inconstant bosom

Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom

With golden and green light, slanting through

Their heaven of many a tangled hue,

Broad water-lilies lay tremulously,

And starry river-buds glimmered by,

And around them the soft stream did glide and dance

With a motion of sweet sound and radiance.

The Sensitive Plant

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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