LITTLE STREAMS.
Little streams are light and shadow,
Flowing through the pasture meadow—
Flowing by the green way-side,
Through the forest dim and wild,
Through the hamlet still and small,
By the cottage, by the hall,
By the ruin’d abbey still,
Turning here and there a mill,
Bearing tribute to the river—
Little streams, I love you ever.
Summer music is there flowing—
Flowering plants in them are growing;
Happy life is in them all,
Creatures innocent and small;
Little birds come down to drink,
Fearless of their leafy brink;
Noble trees beside them grow,
Glooming them with branches low;
And between the sunshine glancing
In their little waves is dancing.
Little streams have flowers a many,
Beautiful and fair as any;
Typha strong, and green bur-reed,
Willow-herb, with cotton-seed;
Arrow-head, with eye of jet,
And the water-violet.
There the flowering rush you meet,
And the plumy meadow sweet;
And in places deep and stilly,
Marble-like, the water-lily.
Little streams, their voices cheery,
Sound forth welcomes to the weary;
Flowing on from day to day,
Without stint and without stay;
Here, upon their flowery bank,
In the old time pilgrims drank;
Here have seen, as now, pass by,
King-fisher, and dragon-fly;
Those bright things that have their dwelling,
Where the little streams are welling.
Down in valleys green and lowly,
Murmuring not and gliding slowly,
Up in mountain-hollows wild,
Fretting like a peevish child;
Through the hamlet, where all day
In their waves the children play;
Running west, or running east,
Doing good to man and beast—
Always giving, weary never,
Little streams, I love you ever.
Mary Howitt.