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The Brookside
I wandered by the brookside,
I wandered by the mill;
I could not hear the brook flow,-
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
I sat beneath the elm tree;
I watched the long, long shade,
And, as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid;
For I listened for a footfall,
I listened for a word,-
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
He came not,-no, he came not,-
The night came on alone,-
The little stars sat one by one,
Each on his golden throne;
The evening wind passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
Fast, silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder,-
I knew its touch was kind;
It drew me nearer,-nearer,-
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.
by Lord Houghton
Science is for those who learn; poetry, for those who know.
~Joseph Roux
The word 'monosyllable' actually has five syllables in it.
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