Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Whither?

        I heard a brooklet gushing        &nbsp From its rocky fountain near, Down into the valley rushing,        &nbsp So fresh and wondrous clear.         I know not what came o'er me,        &nbsp Nor who the counsel gave;         But I must hasten downward,        &nbsp All with my pilgrim-stave; Downward, and ever farther,        &nbsp And ever the brook beside; And ever fresher murmured,      And ever clearer, the tide. Is this the way I was going?      Whither, O brooklet, say I Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,      Murmured my senses away. What do I say of a murmur?       That can no murmur be; 'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing       Their roundelays under me. Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur,       And wander merrily near; The wheels of a mill are going      In every brooklet clear.