O brooklet silver bright and gay!
For ever rushing on thy way,
I, lingering, ever ask thee whence
Thou comest here, where goest thou hence?
“From the dark rock's deep breast I come,
O'er flow'rs and moss I toss and roam;
While on my bosom smiles and lies
The hovering vision of the skies.
“Ask not of me, a laughing child,
Whither or whence my foot steps wild;