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The Little Rills

The little rills

That from the hills

Come trickling down to feed the river,

That sing unheard

Save by poet and bird—

Each little giver

To the great river.

The Seine and the Thames

Have lordly fames,

And the Rhine and the Po

'Neath laurels flow;

But the little streams,

With their whispered dreams,

May sing forever,

And no one know.

Would I could make

A song for their sake!

But I myself go singing unheard,

Save once in a while by poet and bird.