Poetry Archives

Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave
  The lovely vale that lies around thee.
Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve,
  When but a fount the morning found thee?

Born when the skies began to glow,
  Humblest of all the rock’s cold daughters,
No blossom bowed its stalk to show
  Where stole thy still and scanty waters.

Now on thy stream the noonbeams look,
  Usurping, as thou downward driftest,
Its crystal from the clearest brook,
  Its rushing current from the swiftest.

Ah! what wild haste!—and all to be
  A river and expire in ocean.
Each fountain’s tribute hurries thee
  To that vast grave with quicker motion.

Far better ’twere to linger still
  In this green vale, these flowers to cherish,
And die in peace, an aged rill,
  Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.