Classic Poem

Tell me, fair Brook, that long hast sung,
To yonder Pine hast sung so sweetly —
Are its wild arms more near thee flung,
When night their motion veils completely?
Or, for the morn's caressing rays
Still eager, will it toss its boughs, —
Like hearts that only beat for praise,
All heedless of affection's vows?

I never pause — the Brook replied —
To know how near it bends above me,
I cannot help, whate'er betide,
To sing for one I fain would love me;
My song flows on, and still must flow,
My chosen Pine with truth to bless,
Though rippling pebbles sometimes show
The brook athirst with tenderness:

Nay more — when thus, while troublous, oft
My wavelets flash some ray redeeming,
I think but of the Pine aloft,
Which first will proudly hail its beaming!
And, wasted thus, a joy it is
To know my Pine, — refresh'd and bright,
While I distill'd each dewy kiss —
Is worthy of all glorious light!