Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow



  I heard a brooklet gushing
   From its rocky fountain near,
Down into the valley rushing,
   So fresh and wondrous clear.

  I  know not what came o'er me,
   Nor who the counsel gave;
  But I must hasten downward,
   All with my pilgrim-stave;

Downward, and ever farther,
   And ever the brook beside;
And ever fresher murmured,
And ever clearer, the tide.

Is this the way I was going?
Whither, O brooklet, say I
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,
Murmured my senses away.

What do I say of a murmur?
That can no murmur be;
'T is the water-nymphs, tbat are singing
Their roundelays under me.

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur,
  And wander merrily near;
The wheels of a mill are going
In every brooklet clear.