I looked in the brook and saw a face - <br />Heigh-ho, but a child was I! <br />There were rushes and willows in that place, <br />And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by; <br />And the brook it ran its own sweet way, <br />As a child doth run in heedless play, <br />And as it ran I heard it say: <br />"Hasten with me <br />To the roistering sea <br />That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!" <br /> <br />I look in the brook and see a face - <br />Heigh-ho, but the years go by! <br />The rushes are dead in the old-time place, <br />And the willows I knew when a child was I. <br />And the brook it seemeth to me to say, <br />As ever it stealeth on its way - <br />Solemnly now, and not in play: <br />"Oh, come with me <br />To the slumbrous sea <br />That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!" <br /> <br />Heigh-ho, but the years go by - <br />I would to God that a child were I!<br /><br />Eugene Field<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-brook-3/
