And yet, as it nears where violets hide
’Neath soughing pines, its waters glide
With hardly a sound, lest the tender flower
Should feel, in its haste, too hard a shower.
But ever it sings, be it night or day,
Year after year, in the selfsame way,
“Here I tinkle, and there I dash,
I ripple, I murmur, I gaily splash;
Such a mad, such a glad little brook am I,
Singing along ’neath a summer sky!”