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A BROOK SONG, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: I'm hastening from the distant hills
Last Line: "or whither we are going!"
Subject(s): Brooks; Streams; Creeks


I'M hastening from the distant hills
With swift and noisy flowing;
Nursed by a thousand tiny rills,
I'm ever onward going.
The willows cannot stay my course,
With all their pliant wooing;
I sing and sing till I am hoarse,
My prattling way pursuing.
I kiss the pebbles as I pass,
And hear them say they love me,
I make obeisance to the grass
That kindly bends above me.
So onward through the meads and dells
I hasten, never knowing
The secret motive that impels,
Or whither I am going.

A little child comes often here
To watch my quaint commotion
As I go tumbling swift and clear
Down to the distant ocean;
And as he plays upon my brink,
So thoughtless like and merry
And full of noisy song, I think
The child is like me, very.
Through all the years of youthful play,
With ne'er a thought of sorrow,
We, prattling, speed upon our way,
Unmindful of the morrow;
Aye, through these sunny meads and dells
We gambol, never trowing
The solemn motive that impels,
Or whither we are going.

And men come here to say to me:
"Like you, with weird commotion,
O little singing brooklet, we
Are hastening to the ocean;
Down to a vast and misty deep,
With fleeting tears and laughter
We go, nor rest until we sleep
In that profound Hereafter.
What tides may bear our souls along,
What monsters rise appalling,
What distant shores may hear our song
And answer to our calling?
Ah, who can say! Through meads and dells
We wander, never knowing
The awful motive that impels,
Or whither we are going!"





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