Good-by, sweet flowers, good-by.”
Now the brook glides into the woodland.
Here the sad willows droop over the gliding waters.
High above them tower the oak, the ash, and the pine trees.
“Do not hurry, little brook,” whisper their leaves.
“Are you not tired?
You have come a long way.
Here the bright sun never comes.
Stay with us, and we will shade you.
Rest a while under our spreading branches.
In the meadow the burning sun is so hot.
But here it is cool.
Why can you not stay with us?
Why must you always hurry on?”
“Because I have to meet the river.