The Brook by Alfred Tennyson

I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make sudden sally

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges,

By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.

I chatter over stony ways, / In little sharps and trebles, / I bubble into eddying bays, / I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret / By many a field and fallow, / And many a fairy foreland set / With willow-weed and mallow.

And here and there a foamy lake / Upon me, as I travel / With many a silvery waterbreak / Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow / To join the brimming river, / For men may come and men may go, / But I go on for ever.