The Springlet - José Zorilla

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
Engulfed forevermore?

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José Zorilla (1817 – 1893) Spain
Translated by Thomas Walsh