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Have you got a Brook in your little heart
Where bashful flowers blow
And blushing birds go down to drink
And shadows tremble so

And nobody knows, so still it flows
That any brook is there
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there

Why, look out for the little brook in March
When the rivers overflow
And the snows come hurrying from the fills
And the bridges often go

And later, in August it may be
When the meadows parching lie
Beware, lest this little brook of life
Some burning noon go dry!