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!
