There is no sound at all,

Save only the cool plashing

Of fountains in the courtyard

Without my lonely cell:

For fate has granted to me

This last, least consolation of sweet sound

Though in the plains I perish,

I shall hear the noise of waters,

The noise of running waters,

As I die.

My earliest lullaby shall sing

My heart again to slumber.

And, even now, I hear

Stream-voices, long-forgotten, calling me

Back to the hills of home;

And, dreaming, I remember

The little yellow brooks

That ever, day and night,

Gush down the mountains singing,

Singing by the caves:

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