Sonnet Xx. Waters—meet, Linn, Devon Poem by Henry Alford

Even thus, methinks, in some Ionian isle,
Yielding his soul to unrecorded joy,
Beside a fall like this, lingered awhile
On briery banks that wondrous minstrel--boy;
Long hours there came upon his vacant ear
The rushing of the river till strange dreams
Fell on him, and his youthful spirit clear
Was dwelt on by the power of voiceful streams.
Thenceforth began to grow upon his soul
The sound and force of waters; and he fed
His joy at many an ancient river's head,
And echoing caves, and thunder, and the roll
Of the wakeful ocean,--till the day when he
Poured forth that stream divine of mighty melody.