The thunder of seas can be heard from afar, their radiance dumbfounds and awes. No time has their water for respite and calm, forever at war with its shores.

But a brook never rustles
its reeds;
In the shade
one must freeze to become
quit aware of its ripple and lisp 
among pebbles and roots---
One must bend down to notice
it there.

Yet the brook-water,
too,
doesn't like to be still,
but untiringly sings night and day;
He who finds it kneels down,
puts his lips to the brink and for
long cannot tear the away.

He will go there again for a
new rendezvous in the cool of
the brooklet to stand.
Yet its language so lucid,
its music so pure,
not everyone can understand...