Looking-glass River
by Robert Louis Stevenson

Smooth it glides upon its travel, 
          Here a wimple, there a gleam-- 
O the clean gravel! 
          O the smooth stream! 

Sailing blossoms, silver fishes, 
          Pave pools as clear as air-- 
How a child wishes 
          To live down there! 

We can see our colored faces 
          Floating on the shaken pool 
Down in cool places, 
          Dim and very cool; 

Till a wind or water wrinkle, 
          Dipping marten, plumping trout, 
Spreads in a twinkle 
          And blots all out. 

See the rings pursue each other; 
          All below grows black as night, 
Just as if mother 
          Had blown out the light! 

Patience, children, just a minute-- 
          See the spreading circles die; 
The stream and all in it 
          Will clear by-and-by.