Classic Poem

Flooded are the brakes and dell
With thy phantom light,
And my soul receives the spell
Of thy mystic might.

To the meadow dost thou send
Something of thy grace,
Like the kind eye of a friend,
Beaming on my face.

Echoes of departed times
Vibrate in mine ear,
Joyous, sad, like spirit-chimes,
As I wander here.

Flow, flow on, thou little brook;
Ever onward go!
Trusted heart, and tender look,
Left me even so.

Richer treasure earth has none
Than I once possess'd —
Ah, so rich, that when 'twas gone,
Worthless was the rest.

Little brook! adown the vale,
Rush, and take my song;
Give it passion, give it wail,
As thou leap'st along.

Sound it in the winter night,
When thy streams are full;
Murmur it when skies are bright,
Mirror'd in the pool.

Happiest he of all created,
Who the world can shun,
Not in hate, and yet unhated;
Sharing thought with none,

Save one faithful friend; revealing,
To his kindly ear,
Thoughts like these, which, o'er me stealing,
Make the night so drear.

Flooded are the brakes and dell
With thy phantom light,
And my soul receives the spell
Of thy mystic might.

To the meadow dost thou send
Something of thy grace,
Like the kind eye of a friend,
Beaming on my face.

Echoes of departed times
Vibrate in mine ear,
Joyous, sad, like spirit-chimes,
As I wander here.

Flow, flow on, thou little brook;
Ever onward go!
Trusted heart, and tender look,
Left me even so.

Richer treasure earth has none
Than I once possess'd —
Ah, so rich, that when 'twas gone,
Worthless was the rest.

Little brook! adown the vale,
Rush, and take my song;
Give it passion, give it wail,
As thou leap'st along.

Sound it in the winter night,
When thy streams are full;
Murmur it when skies are bright,
Mirror'd in the pool.

Happiest he of all created,
Who the world can shun,
Not in hate, and yet unhated;
Sharing thought with none,

Save one faithful friend; revealing,
To his kindly ear,
Thoughts like these, which, o'er me stealing,
Make the night so drear.