I heard a brooklet gushing
       &nbsp From its rocky fountain near,
Down into the valley rushing,
       &nbsp So fresh and wondrous clear.
        I know not what came o'er me,
       &nbsp Nor who the counsel gave;
        But I must hasten downward,
       &nbsp All with my pilgrim-stave;
Downward, and ever farther,
       &nbsp And ever the brook beside;
And ever fresher murmured,
     And ever clearer, the tide.
Is this the way I was going?
     Whither, O brooklet, say I
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,
     Murmured my senses away.
What do I say of a murmur?
      That can no murmur be;
'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing
      Their roundelays under me.
Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur,
      And wander merrily near;
The wheels of a mill are going
     In every brooklet clear.