---

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - To My Brooklet. (From The French Of Ducis)
Work rating: Low

Thou brooklet, all unknown to song, 
Hid in the covert of the wood! 
Ah, yes, like thee I fear the throng, 
Like thee I love the solitude. 

O brooklet, let my sorrows past 
Lie all forgotten in their graves, 
Till in my thoughts remain at last 
Only thy peace, thy flowers, thy waves. 

The lily by thy margin waits;-- 
The nightingale, the marguerite; 
In shadow here he meditates 
His nest, his love, his music sweet. 

Near thee the self-collected soul 
Knows naught of error or of crime; 
Thy waters, murmuring as they roll, 
Transform his musings into rhyme. 

Ah, when, on bright autumnal eves, 
Pursuing still thy course, shall I 
Lisp the soft shudder of the leaves, 
And hear the lapwing`s plaintive cry?
Source
The script ran 0.003 seconds.