Six Songs

I heard a brooklet gushing
From its rocky fountains near
Down into the valley rushing
So fresh and wondrous clear.

I know not what came o'er me, 
Nor who the counsel gave;
But I must hasten downward
All with my pilgrim stave.

Downward and ever farther
And ever the brook beside;
And ever fresher murmured,
And ever clearer the tide.

Is this the way I was going?
Whither, O brooklet, say!
Thou hast with thy soft murmur,
Murmured my senses away.

What say I of a murmur
That can no murmur be?
'Tis the water nymphs that are singing,
Their roundelays under me.

Let them sing, my friend,
Let them murmur,
And wander merrily near;
The wheels of a mill are turning
In ev'ry brooklet clear.