The Loon that laughs and flies
Down to these reflected skies.
A youthful eel resided in a tiny tidal pool;
He was lithe as gutta-percha, and as pliable;
From his actions and contradictions
he appeared to be a fool,
But his virtue was completely undeniable.
I heard a whisper, sweet and keen,
Flow through the fringe of rushes green.
The water saying some light thing,
The rushes gaily answering.
No wonder he laughs so loud
No wonder he looks so proud;
There are great kings that would give their royalty
To have one day of his felicity.
Upon the river
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn
Like a yellow water-lily.
In summer-noon flushes,
When all the wood hushes,
Blue dragon-flies knitting
To and fro in the sun,
With sidelong jerk flitting,
Sink down in the rushes.
And, motionless sitting,
Hear it bubble and run,
Hear its low inward singing,
With level wings swinging
On green-tasseled rushes,
To dream in the sun.
I envy the stream, as it glides along
Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song.
Vines are the curtains, blossoms the floor;
Voices of waters, sing evermore.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
|-- Tennyson, "The Brook"|
The river sends forth glad sounds,
and tripping o'er its bed
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,
Seems with continuous laughter to rejoice
In its own being.
"They shall spring up as among the grass,
as willows by the water courses."
|-- Isaiah 44:4.|
The silver weed with the yellow flowers,
Blooms on the bank of that clear brook,
Whose music cheers my lonely ways.
The trout within yon wimpling
burn glides swift -- a silver dart;
And safe beneath the shady thorn
defies the angler's art.