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!