Which o'er the brook its figure rears,
And watch'd the pebbles as they sank?
How white the stream! I still remember
Its margin glassed by hoar December,
And how the sun fell on the snow:
Ah! can it be so long ago?
It cometh back;—so blithe, so bright,
It hurries to my eager ken.
As though but one short winter's night
Had darkened o'er the world since then.