How silent comes the water round that bend; Not the minutest whisper does it send To the o'erhanging sallows; blades of grass Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass,-- Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, To taste the luxury of sunny beams Tempered with coolness. How they ever wrestle With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. If you but scantily hold out the hand, That very instant not one will remain; But turn your eye, and they are there again. The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses; The while they cool themselves, they freshness give. And moisture, that the bowery green may live,
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Minnows
John Keats 1795-1821
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Graphic - Oskar Laske 1874-1951
