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!