Down from yon distant mountain height
The brooklet flows through the village street;
A boy comes forth to wash his hands,
Washing, yes washing, there he stands,
In the water cool and sweet.

“Brook, from what mountain dost thou come?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!”
“I come from yon mountain high and cold,
Where lieth the new snow on the old,
And melts in the summer heat.”

“Brook, to what river dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!”
“I go to the river there below
Where in bunches the violets grow,
And sun and shadow meet.”

“Brook, to what garden dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!”
“I go to that garden in the vale
Where all night long the nightingale
Her love-song doth repeat.”

“Brook, to what fountain dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!”
“I go to that fountain, at whose brink
The maid that loves thee comes to drink,
And, whenever she looks therein,
I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin,
And my joy is then complete.”

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