I have a little brook in the deeps of my heart.
What does it matter if the day be chill or clear,
Coloured like a tourmaline and winged like a dart,
Voiced like a nightingale, it sings all the year.
Small bright herbs on the banks of the stream,
Moon-pale primroses, and tapestries of fern,
This is the reality and life is just a dream,
Iridescent bubble that the moon tides turn.