Running From ever y side 



Waters. There comes a breath, a hum, a voice : 



The hill-wind fans it with a pleasant noise 



As of sweet rustling things 



That move on unseen wings, 



And from the pinewood near 



A floating whisper oftentimes I hear, 



As when, o'er pastoral meadows wide, 



Stealeth the drowsy music of a weir. 



The green reeds bend above it ; 



The soft green grasses stoop and trail therein ; 



The minnows dart and spin ; 



The purple-gleaming swallows love it : 



And, hush, its innermost depths within, 



The vague prophetic murmur of the linn ! 



But not in summertide alone 



I love to look 



Upon this rippling water in my glen . 



Most sweet, most dear my brook, 



And most my own, 



When the grey mists shroud every ben, 



And in its quiet place 



The stream doth bare her face 



And lets me pore deep down into her eyes, 



Her eyes of shadowy grey 



Wherein from day to day 



My soul is spellbound with a new surmise, 



Or doth some subtler meaning trace 



Reflected from unseen invisible skies. 



Dear mountain-solitary, dear lonely brook, 

 Of hillside rains and dews the fragrant daughter, 

 Sweet, sweet thy music when I bend above thee, 

 When in thy fugitive face I look : 

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