The Brook

I looked in the brook and saw a face -Heigh-ho, but a child was I!

There were rushes and willows in that place,

And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by;

And the brook it ran its own sweet way,

As a child doth run in heedless play,

And as it ran I heard it say:"Hasten with

To the roistering

That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!"I look in the brook and see a face -Heigh-ho, but the years go by!

The rushes are dead in the old-time place,

And the willows I knew when a child was I.

And the brook it seemeth to me to say,

As ever it stealeth on its way -Solemnly now, and not in play:"Oh, come with

To the slumbrous

That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!"Heigh-ho, but the years go by -I would to God that a child were I!