Life is a brook, that over pebbles glides,
And tints with colour of the cloud his wave;
Now, the East blazes, now, sad Phoebus slides
Down the red hills, that shroud him for his grave;
The waters now are calm, now, troubled, foam,
Exult on ridges, now o’er slopes decline,
Now, in their summer sprightliness, they roam,
Now, stand, congealed, in winter’s icy twine;
Full many a flower is often mirror’d there,
And the fresh grass, and the green shady trees,
Full many a pebble glistens through them, fair,
All in confusion, toss’d by wave and breeze;
’Tis strange, though many stones are form’d to fit,
Few meet their mates, most roll confus’dly knit.