THE BROOK. I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make sudden sallyAnd sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges. I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith... more...