Sweet are the little brooks that ran
	O’er pebbles glancing in the sun,
	Singing in soothing tones.

Hood.    

	I chatter, chatter, as I flow,
	To join the brimming river,
	For men may come and men may go,
	But I go on forever.

Tennyson.    

	Brook! whose society the poet seeks,
	Intent his wasted spirits to renew;
	And whom the curious painter doth pursue
	Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,
	And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks.

Wordsworth.    

	Thou hastenest down, between the hills to meet me at the road,
	The secret scarcely lisping of thy beautiful abode
	Among the pines and mosses of yonder shadowy height,
	Where thou dost sparkle into song, and fill the woods with light.

Lucy Larcom.