It must flow ever on and on.
Bright flowers are hiding along its banks.
They peep out from the grass.
They look into the clear flowing water.
“Stay, little brook, play with us,” they whisper.
“Why do you always hurry so? Are you not weary?”
“No, no, I am never weary, never tired,” murmurs the brook.
“I never stop to play.
It is play for me to rush swiftly down the steep hill.
It is fun to flow gently across the meadow.