Brook, The

“Like thee, oh stream! to glide in solitude
     Noiselessly on, reflecting sun or star,
     Unseen by man, and from the great world’s jar
Kept evermore aloof—methinks ‘twas good
To live thus lonely through the silent lapse
     Of my appointed time.” Not wisely said,
     Unthinking Quietist! The brook hath sped
Its course for ages through the narrow gaps
     Of rifted hills and o’er the reedy plain,
     Or ‘mid the eternal forests, not in vain—
The grass more greenly groweth on its brink,
     And lovelier flowers and richer fruits are there,
And of its crystal waters myriads drink,
     That else would faint beneath the torrid air.