The Well-head

I traced a little brook to its well-head.
Where, amid quivering weeds, its waters leap
From the earth, and hurrying into shadow, creep
Unseen but vocal in their deep-worn bed.
Hawthorns and hazels interlacing wed
With roses sweet, and overhang the steep
Moss'd banks, while through the leaves stray sunbeams pee
And on the whispering stream faint glimmerings shed.
Thus let my life flow on, through green fields gliding.

Unnoticed, not unuseful in its course,
Still fresh and fragrant, though in shadow hiding.

Holding its destined way with quiet force.
Cheered with the music of a peace abiding.
Drawn daily from its ever-springing source.