I know how light the waters run
O’er the sere grass and fretful stone;
I know how fountains leap, how still
The winds creep over lake and hill;
The Autumn birds, the last leaf-fall,
The morn’s sweet breath—I know them all.
I know them all—and yet my feet
Are not where singing waters meet;
My books are for the running streams,
And stupid schoolmen for the dreams