A brook from a headland was falling In drops to the terrible sea, When Ocean, the grave of the sailor, Cried: "Weeper! What woulds't thou with me? My life is all tempest and terror, No limit I own but the sky, Thou weakling! My power is stupendous, What need of thy service have I?" The Brook said: "O, turbulent Ocean! I noiselessly steal to thy brink, And bear thee, salt Sea, what thou lackest, drop of fresh water to drink." |