Thomas Ashe (1836-1889)

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The Brook

Brook, happy brook, that glidest through my dell;
That trippest with soft feet across the mead;
That, laughing on, a mazy course dost lead,
O'er pebble beds, and reeds, and rushy swell;
Go by that cottage where my love doth dwell.
Ripple thy sweetest ripple, sing the best
Of melodies thou hast; lull her to rest
With such sweet tales as thou dost love to tell.
Say, "One is sitting in your wood to-night,
O maiden rare, to catch a glimpse of you;
A shadow fleet, or but a window-light,
Shall make him glad, and thrill his spirit through."
Brook, happy brook, I pray, go lingering;
And underneath the rosy lattice sing.

(Text from The Golden Book of English Sonnets.)