THERE is a little unpretending Rill
Of limpid water, humbler far than aught
That ever among men or naiads sought
Notice or name! - It quivers down the hill,
Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will;
Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought
Oftener than mightiest Floods, whose path is
Through wastes of sand, and forests dark and chill.
Do thou, even thou, O faithful Anna! say
Why this small Streamlet is to me so dear;
Thou know'st, that while enjoyments disappear
And sweet remembrances like flowers decay,
The immortal spirit of one happy day
Lingers upon its marge, in vision clear !