The Spring and the Brook.

It may be that the Poet is as a Spring,1
That, from the deep of being, pulsing forth,2
Proffers the hot and thirsty sons of earth3
Refreshment unbestow’d by sage or king.4
Still is he but an utterance—a lone thing5
Sad-hearted in his very voice of mirth,—6
Too often shivering in the thankless dearth7
Of those affections he the best can sing.8
But thou, O lively Brook ! whose fruitful way9
Brings with it mirror’d smiles, and green, and flowers10
Child of all scenes, companion of all hours,11
Taking the simple cheer of every day,—12
How little is to thee, thou happy Mind,13
That solitary parent Spring behind !14