THE BROOK

I have a little brook in the deeps of my heart. What does it matter if the day be chill or clear, Coloured like a tourmaline and winged like a dart, Voiced like a nightingale, it sings all the year.

Small bright herbs on the banks of the stream, Moon-pale primroses, and tapestries of fern, This is the reality and life is just a dream, Iridescent bubble that the moon tides turn.