Shadow Brook creeps round the hill,

Shadow Brook darts past the mill—

Coming from the wood, in haste

Seeks again its native waste!

Meanwhile, every friend it meets

For protection it entreats;

Saying: “Willows, close around,

That my path may not be found!

Grass and sedges interlace,

Throw a veil across my face!

Clematis and gold-thread weave

Meshes that can best deceive!

Celandine and gentian rise,

And my ripples help disguise!

Pebbles, do not tempt to play

Lest my laughter should betray!

Silent as my minnows are,

I would glide afar, afar:

Help me, friends, to reach the wood,

And its happy solitude,

Where I have my chosen bed

Of the brown leaves underspread.”

Thus, in ways it knoweth best,

Shadow Brook runs on its quest,

Shadow Brook—a hermit stream—

Finding life a pleasant dream.