Whither?

I heard a brooklet gushing

From its rocky fountains near

Down into the valley rushing

So fresh and wondrous clear.

I know not what came o'er me,

Nor who the counsel gave;

But I must hasten downward

All with my pilgrim stave.

Downward and ever farther

And ever the brook beside;

And ever fresher murmured,

And ever clearer the tide.

Is this the way I was going?

Whither, O brooklet, say!

Thou hast with thy soft murmur,

Murmured my senses away.

What say I of a murmur

That can no murmur be?

'Tis the water nymphs that are singing,

Their roundelays under me.

Let them sing, my friend,

Let them murmur,

And wander merrily near;

The wheels of a mill are turning

In ev'ry brooklet clear.