html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Tell me, fair Brook, that long hast sung,
To yonder Pine hast sung so sweetly—
Are its wild arms more near thee flung,
When night their motion veils completely?
Or, for the morn's caressing rays
Still eager, will it toss its boughs,—
Like hearts that only beat for praise,
All heedless of affection's vows?
I never pause—the Brook replied—
To know how near it bends above me,
I cannot help, whate'er betide,
To sing for one I fain would love me;
My song flows on, and still must flow,
My chosen Pine with truth to bless,
Though rippling pebbles sometimes show
The brook athirst with tenderness:
Nay more—when thus, while tronblous, oft
My wavelets flash some ray redeeming,
I think but of the Pine aloft,
Which first will proudly hail its beaming!
And, wasted thus, a joy it is
To know my Pine,—refresh'd and bright,
While I distill'd each dewy kiss—
Is worthy of all glorious light!