You have such a happy look—
Such a very merry manner as you swerve and curve and crook—
And your ripples, one and one,
Reach each other’s hands and run,
Like laughing little children in the sun.
Little Brook, sing to me,
Sing about a bumble bee,
That tumbled from a lily-bell, and grumbled mumblingly,
Because he wet the film
Of his wings and had to swim,