Streamlets of clear abundant water were passed.
"Across Unknown South America" by Arnold Henry Savage Landor
He selected as his breakfast-table the green sward beside a sparkling mountain streamlet.
"The Young Miner" by Horatio Alger, Jr.
We could see them dashing into and across the little streamlet without making any account of it.
"The Hunters' Feast" by Mayne Reid
Streamlets, which would be negligible on the plateau, become formidable obstacles in their deep beds.
"History of the War in South Africa 1899-1902 v. 1 (of 4)" by Frederick Maurice
She says that they are almost sure to cross the streamlet there.
"The Speaker, No. 5: Volume II, Issue 1" by Various
The great Fountain of being must first be dried up, before the streamlet can.
"The Words of Jesus" by John R. Macduff
Down a meadow gushed a small streamlet which splashed from a wooden spout on to the roadside.
"Gipsy Life being an account of our Gipsies and their children" by George Smith
She caught the sparkle of a little cascade, the gleam of a streamlet.
"Rimrock Trail" by J. Allan Dunn
Is it by streamlet or limpid fountain?
"Eidolon" by Walter R. Cassels
From the edge of it the water was dripping in tiny streamlets.
"The Campfire Girls on Ellen's Isle" by Hildegard G. Frey
They tell of tales of mystery,
Of darkling deeds of woe;
But no! such doings might not brook
The holy streamlet's flow.
"Trehill Well" by Charles Kingsley
How pleasant to my feet unused,
To tread the daisied ground!
How sweet to my unwonted ear
The streamlet's lulling sound.
"Paraphrase: Psalm CIII, 3, 4." by James Grahame
For all her quiet life flowed on
As meadow streamlets flow,
Where fresher green reveals alone
The noiseless ways they go.
"The Friend’s Burial" by John Greenleaf Whittier
Unnoticed, he contrived to glide
Adown a greenwood alley,
By lilies lured — that grew beside
A streamlet in the valley;
"The Child and the Hind" by Thomas Campbell
And yet perchance some maiden, wandering there,
May bend beside it with a loving look,
Or by the streamlet place it in her hair;
And smile above her image in the brook.
"On Receiving A Privately Printed Volume Of Poems From A Friend" by Thomas Buchanan Read
Sweet morn on the hillside dripping with dew,
Girded with blue and pearl,
Counts the leaves afloat in the streamlet too;
As the love-lorn heart of a wistful girl,
She sings while her soul brooding tearfully
Sees a dream of gold in the willow-tree.
"An Autumn Treasure-Trove" by Eugene Field