There runs the hurrying brook away,
Where meadows stretch their emerald green;
Where sleek cows feed and glad birds sing;
Through mountain passes, and between
Huge boulders topped with lichens gray;
Past cottage doors where children play;
Past quiet churchyards where the dead
Sleep all unmindful of its song;
Past busy marts where weary tread
The living, heedless of its lay.
Where runs the hurrying brook away?
By sandy reaches to the sea,
Longing to join the waves that break
Upon the beaches wild and free,
Bearing their burden of white spray.
How runs the hurrying brook away?
Like melody the bobolink pours
Upon the air; like the sweet strain
Of music borne through half-closed doors,
Like girlhood's laughter heard in May;
Like love that beautifies the way,
Its journeyings pure and full and free;
Like human life itself that sings
Toward the great eternity,--
So runs the hurrying brook away.
