Thomas Ashe (1836-1889)

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.