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The brook

 I looked in the brook and saw a face -
Heigh-ho, but a child was I!
There were rushes and willows in that place,
And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by;
And the brook it ran its own sweet way,
As a child doth run in heedless play,
And as it ran I heard it say:
"Hasten with me
To the roistering sea
That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!"

I look in the brook and see a face -
Heigh-ho, but the years go by!
The rushes are dead in the old-time place,
And the willows I knew when a child was I.
And the brook it seemeth to me to say, As ever it stealeth on its way - Solemnly now, and not in play: "Oh, come with me To the slumbrous sea That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!" Heigh-ho, but the years go by - I would to God that a child were I!

Poem by Eugene Field
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