The Brook
Winding, ever winding, Through the greenwood glade, The soft light falls, and finding A place it makes the shade, As the brook, a merry creature, Trills its happy song, And the trees, in gentle feature, To its cadence throng.
Round the rocky mossy coast, Watching each curve and curl, It shines, a liquid ghost, A silver crystal whirl!
How it tumbles and avoids, Yet never quite escape; All the shadows it employs, In a merry escaping shape.
- Isabella Valancy Crawford