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.