Towards democracy

Little Brook without a Name 505

Say, what indeed art Thou—that hast been my companion now these twenty years?

Thou, with thy gracious retinue of summer, and thy fringes and lace-work of frost in winter, and icy tassels bobbing in the stream;

And sound of human voices from thy bosem all the day, and mystic song at night beneath the stars—

What art Thou, say!

While I have sat here, lo! thou hast scampered away, little brook, with all thy lace-work and tassels,

Three hundred and fifty thousand miles;

So quiet, so soft—and no one knew what a travelier thou wert ;

Three hundred and fifty thousand miles in these few years, and so thou hast flowed for centuries ;

And all the birds and fish and little quadrupeds have gone with thee, and herbs and flowers ;

Yet I sit here and prate as though I knew all about thee ;

And the country-folk too, who reckon thou camest to turn the Mill—they think they know all about thee.

But now I see how, soft-footed, thou passest by on a secret quest,

’ Cantering quietly down through the grasses,

And gatherest even from all wide earth and heaven thy waters together—to lave these turfy banks and the roots of the primroses ;

I see how thou sheddest refreshment and life on thousands of creatures—who ask no questions;