I heard a brooklet gushing <br />From its rocky fountain near, <br />Down into the valley rushing, <br />So fresh and wondrous clear. <br /> <br />I know not what came o'er me, <br />Nor who the counsel gave; <br />But I must hasten downward, <br />All with my pilgrim-stave; <br /> <br />Downward, and ever farther, <br />And ever the brook beside; <br />And ever fresher murmured, <br />And ever clearer, the tide. <br /> <br />Is this the way I was going? <br />Whither, O brooklet, say I <br />Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, <br />Murmured my senses away. <br /> <br />What do I say of a murmur? <br />That can no murmur be; <br />'Tis the water-nymphs, that are singing <br />Their roundelays under me. <br /> <br />Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, <br />And wander merrily near; <br />The wheels of a mill are going <br />In every brooklet clear.<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/whither-from-the-german-of-m-ller/
