I have a little brook in the deeps of my heart.

What does it matter if the day be chill or clear,

Coloured like a tourmaline and wingÈd like a dart,

Voiced like a nightingale, it sings all the year.

Small bright herbs on the banks of the stream,

Moon-pale primroses, and tapestries of fern,

This is the reality and life is just a dream,

Iridescent bubble that the moon tides turn.