When restful at the farmhouse we abode,
One August mild whose memory lingers long,
Not always did we note the happy song
Of that brown brook that through the pastures flowed,
Whose haunt the field-flowers tall would hide, yet showed;
For farmstead sounds full oft would do it wrong,
Or speech, or laughter light, or wheels along
The shaded windings of the elmy road.
Yet ever it flowed and sang to the warm day,
As to a drowsy child old running rhymes,
And ever at a pause was in the ear,
Low-whispering where the goldenrod was gay,
The assuring utterance of all still times.
So is it with the voice the heart holds dear.