As a Still Brook

As a still brook within the woodland's green Sings softly to itself the live-long day, Unconscious of its gentle roundelay, Its open purity and silver sheen —

Knowing not how in all that wild demesne, Its music is a strain the angels play And its fair face a jewel amid the gray, Beshadowed places that it flows between;

So your dear love, a simple forest stream, Bearing the wealth of all that life can hold,— Nor ever dreaming of the worth that lies Deep in your heart — why, you have made it seem

That every empty hour is wrought of gold And this tear-sodden world, a Paradise!