It was an April morning
When my true love went out;
The wind had never a warning;
The sky had never a doubt.
Leaves and blossoms were lustres
On oak and maple and beech;
Hopes were hanging in clusters
A little out of reach.
He wandered—he and no other—
Down by the little white brook;
The stones sang one to another,
“A king is coming; look!”
The brook said, laughing and leaping,
“Peep, and you shall see.”
Through the leaves he went peeping,
And there he saw—Me.
Saw me, took me, crowned me,
There, as I stood in my shame;
I knew that he had found me,
Before I knew his name.
I went where I was fated,
Dumb with fear and surprise.
A week and a day I waited,
Before I saw his eyes,
I gave him never a whisper
For all the words he said;
The brook was a pleasant lisper,
It talked to him instead.
Brook, you told my emotion,
Hearing him plight his vow!
Brook, you have not a notion
What I feel for him now!