Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/173

 And asked it whence it came and went, And when its treasures would be spent.

The Water! the Water! The merry, wanton brook, That bent itself to pleasure me, Like mine own shepherd crook. The Water! the Water! That sang so sweet at noon, And sweeter still at night, to win Smiles from the pale proud moon, And from the little fairy faces That gleam in heaven's remotest places.

The Water! the Water! The dear and blessed thing That all day fed the little flowers On its banks blossoming. The Water! the Water! That murmured in my ear, Hymns of a saint-like purity, That angels well might hear; And whisper in the gates of heaven, How meek a pilgrim had been shriven.