Thou brooklet, all unknown to song, <br />Hid in the covert of the wood! <br />Ah, yes, like thee I fear the throng, <br />Like thee I love the solitude. <br /> <br />O brooklet, let my sorrows past <br />Lie all forgotten in their graves, <br />Till in my thoughts remain at last <br />Only thy peace, thy flowers, thy waves. <br /> <br />The lily by thy margin waits;-- <br />The nightingale, the marguerite; <br />In shadow here he meditates <br />His nest, his love, his music sweet. <br /> <br />Near thee the self-collected soul <br />Knows naught of error or of crime; <br />Thy waters, murmuring as they roll, <br />Transform his musings into rhyme. <br /> <br />Ah, when, on bright autumnal eves, <br />Pursuing still thy course, shall I <br />Lisp the soft shudder of the leaves, <br />And hear the lapwing's plaintive cry?<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-my-brooklet-from-the-french-of-ducis/
