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 quite 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...
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