the lowlands is a brook and in the highlands Running 

 a burn, yet than the one is swifter and than Waters, 

 the other is less debonair and impetuous) that 

 I have been constrained to ask leave to let it 

 appear here as a natural close of running 

 waters at the end of this brief paper on a 

 theme in whose very title lie old music and 

 dream and subtly incalculable spell. 



The Hill-Water 



There is a little brook, 



I love it well : 



It hath so sweet a sound 



That even in dreams my ears could tell 



Its music anywhere. 



Often I wander there, 



And leave my book 



Unread upon the ground, 



Eager to quell 



In the hush'd air 



That dwells above its flowing forehead fair 



All that about my heart hath wound 



A trouble of care : 



Or, it may be, idly to spell 



Its runic music rare, 



And with its singing soul to share 



Its ancient lore profound : 



For sweet it is to be the echoing shell 



That lists and inly keeps that murmurous miracle. 



About it all day long 

 In this June-tide 

 There is a myriad song. 



H3 



