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 meTo the roistering seaThat 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 meTo the slumbrous seaThat 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!