Not Understood and Other Poems/The Brooklet in the Glen
THE BROOKLET IN THE GLEN.
ITS mellow song The whole night long Is borne around the tranquil vale, And through the day In cheerful lay It chants a never ending taleThe hist’ry of its life and birth, The secrets of the valley, whenFrom the effusive pores of earth, God called it down the glen.
The Tui’s trill, Upon the hill,Is answered by a thousand notes, Till one grand swell From nook and dellUpon the morning ether floats;But in a voice subdued and low, Which tells of things beyond our ken,The brooklet’s gentle accents flow, Meandering down the glen.
Old ocean hoarse, Ejects with forceHis foaming tongue to lap the beach; But all in vain He tries to gain The upland prize he cannot reachTrue reflex of the passions wild Which stir the restless souls of men—The brooklet is a careless child That prattles down the glen.
And as it flows It larger grows,Until it merges in the sea; And thus the boy From childish joy Runs into man’s anxiety;The fairy towers we loved to raise, Are swallowed in life’s whirlpool then—There’s food for thought in all thy lays, Sweet brooklet in the glen.