Classic Poem

Down across the hill's low brow—
A slender, silver fillet—
Nothing is so musical
As my little rillet.
Ah! that laughing song of yours!
Delicately trill it.

Shall I fret you, hasty brook?
Shall I mar your paces—
Weaver, weaving silver threads
Into silver laces,
Round about and in and out
The sunniest of places?

Loose your tresses in the chase,
Slip about the border
Of yon garden wall, and catch
A blossom, gay marauder!
What shall please my love of ease
As your sweet disorder?

While the world goes jogging on,
Presently I miss you;
Life is made of other stuff
Than your limpid tissue.
Turn a mill, you lazy rill,
While I wait the issue.

Let the beetle while away
The Summer with its drumming,
Foam you at the whirling wheel,
And babble to its humming.
Toil away the livelong day—
It is more becoming.

Creep beneath the sweeping bough,
While each ripple twinkles,
Starlike, in a sky of leaves,
And your frothy crinkles
Form a leathern apron there,
Full of creamy wrinkles.

When the bald and brazen day
Hath donned his dusky visor,
Still you flow a-down apace,
While night's myriad eyes are
Watching you; for what they view
No one is the wiser.