The Brooklet

A little farther on, there is a brook
Where the breeze lingers idly. The high trees
Have roof 'd it with their crowding limbs and leaves,
So that the sun drinks not from its sweet fount,
And the shade cools it. You may hear it now,
A low, faint beating, as, upon the leaves
That lie beneath its rapids, it descends
In a fine, showery rain, that keeps one tune,
And 'tis a sweet one, still of constancy.
Beside its banks, through the whole livelong day,
Ere yet I noted much the speed of time,
And knew him but in songs and ballad-books,
Nor cared to know him better, I have lain;
With thought unchid by harsher din than came
From the thick thrush, that, gliding through the copse,
Hurried above me; or the timid fawn
That came down to the brooklet's edge to drink,
And saunter'd through its shade, cropping the grass,
Even where I lay, — having a quiet mood,
And not disturbing, while surveying mine.
Thou smilest — and on thy lip a straying thought
Says I have trifled — calls my hours misspent,
And looks a solemn warning! A true thought, —
And so my errant mood were well rebuked! —
Vet there was pleasant sadness that became
Meetly the gentle heart and pliant sense,
In that same idlesse — gazing on that brook
So pebbly and so clear, — prattling away,
Like a young child, all thoughtless, till it goes
From shadow into sunlight, and is lost.