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| Hoyt & Roberts, comps. Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations. 1922. |
| Brooks |
| A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. Coleridge—The Ancient Mariner. Pt. V. St. 18. | 1 |
| The streams, rejoiced that winter’s work is done, Talk of to-morrow’s cowslips as they run. Ebenezer Elliott—The Village Patriarch. Love and Other Poems. Spring. | 2 |
| From Helicon’s harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take. Gray—The Progress of Poesy. I. 1. L. 3. | 3 |
| Sweet are the little brooks that run O’er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones. Hood—Town and Country. St. 9. | 4 |
| Thou hastenest down between the hills to meet me at the road. The secret scarcely lisping of thy beautiful abode Among the pines and mosses of yonder shadowy height, Where thou dost sparkle into song, and fill the woods with light. Lucy Larcom—Friend Brook. St. 1. | 5 |
| See, how the stream has overflowed Its banks, and o’er the meadow road Is spreading far and wide! Longfellow—Christus. The Golden Legend. Pt. III. Sc. 7. The Nativity. | 6 |
| The music of the brook silenced all conversation. Longfellow—Kavanagh. Ch. XXI. | 7 |
| I wandered by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill: I could not hear the brook flow. The noisy wheel was still. Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton)—The Brookside. | 8 |
| Gently running made sweet music with the enameled stones and seemed to give a gentle kiss to every sedge he overtook in his watery pilgrimage. Seven Champions. Pt. III. Ch. XII. | 9 |
| He makes sweet music with the enameled stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge, He overtaketh in his pilgrimage. Two Gentlemen of Verona. Act II. Sc. 7. | 10 |
| I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. Tennyson—The Brook. | 11 |
| Brook! whose society the poet seeks, Intent his wasted spirits to renew; And whom the curious painter doth pursue Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks. Wordsworth—Brook! Whose Society the Poet Seeks. | 12 |
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