Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By William WilberforceLord404 The Brook
A
While daylight pales beneath the moon,
And with a brook meandering,
To hear its gentle tune.
It told her something—you might guess,
To see her smile, to see her look
Of listening eagerness.
Flowed with her timid feet along;
And down she wandered by its side
To hear the running song.
A creeping music in the ground;
And then, if something checked its flow,
A gurgling swell of sound.
She seeks her mother’s cot;
And still the noise shall be her guide,
And lead her to the spot.
To move about beneath the sun,
Small things like this seem liberty,—
Something from darkness won.
And on the bank she followed still,
It murmured on, nor could she tell
It was another rill.
And wherefore dost thou wander here?”
“I seek my mother’s cot,” she said,
“And surely it is near.”
In yonder mountains dark and drear,
Where sinks the sun, its source it took,
Ah, wherefore art thou here?”
It is the brook, I know its sound.
Ah! why would you deceive the blind?
I hear it in the ground.”
And weary were her tender feet,
The brook’s small voice seemed not so glad,
Its song was not so sweet.
And wherefore dost thou wander here?”
“I seek my mother’s cot,” she said,
“And surely it is near.”
“I hear its sound,” the maid replied,
With dreamlike and bewildered look,
“I have not left its side.”
The first pale stars begin to gleam.”
The maid replied with bursting tears,
“It is the stream! it is the stream!”