Whither?

FROM MÜLLER.

I heard a brooklet gushing From its rocky fountain near, Down into the valley rushing, So fresh and wondrous clear.

I know not what came o’er me, Nor who the counsel gave; But I must hasten downward, All with my pilgrim-stave.

Downward, and ever farther, And ever the brook beside; And ever fresher murmured, And ever clearer, the tide.

Is this the way I was going? Whither, O brooklet, say! Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, Murmured my senses away.

What do I say of a murmur? That can no murmur be; ’Tis the water-nymphs that are singing Their roundelays under me.

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, And wander merrily near; The wheels of a mill are going In every brooklet clear.