Explore "To my Brooklet" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
By Jean Francois Ducis
Thou brooklet, all unknown to song, / Hid in the covert of the wood! / Ah, yes, like thee I fear the throng, / Like thee I love the solitude.
O brooklet, let my sorrows past / Lie all forgotten in their graves, / Till in my thoughts remain at last / Only thy peace, thy flowers, thy waves.
The lily by thy margin waits; -- / The nightingale, the marguerite; / In shadow here he meditates / His nest, his love, his music sweet.
Near thee the self-collected soul / Knows naught of error or of crime; / Thy waters, murmuring as they roll, / Transform his musings into rhyme.
Ah, when, on bright autumnal eves, / Pursuing still thy course, shall I / Lisp the soft shudder of the leaves, / And hear the lapwing's plaintive cry?