Sonett-Forum

Streamlet! methinks thy lot resembles mine,
For thou art wayward, and delight'st to run
Through dingles wild, where writhen roots entwine;
The haunts that power and pride are like to shun;

Or if by chance they cross thy playful stream
They mark thee not, nor seek to know thy source,
For men have never mapped thy modest course,
Nor thought worth while to give thee even a name.

Yet art thou not unloved; for on thy brink
The primerose blossoms early, and the bird
Of orange bill down thy deep glen is heard

By some lone youth that pauses there to think
That he o'er life's sequestered vales, like thee,
Though not unmournful, runs right merrily.