HASTING on, the springlet flows,
Licking up its dark brown bed;
More and more its crystal grows
As its course is sped.
Stirs the grasses, moists the sand,
Plays a thousand tricks a day;
Wave on wave its face is fanned
With laughter light and gay.
Couch of down it lends the vale;
Cool its fan the birch-trees find;
Reeds its quiet pathway trail
To rest and shade resigned.
Bursts it on the open sky!
What was all its running for,
If beneath the cliff it die
Translation by Thomas Walsh.