The clear cold cutting water,
Meanders mossy banks,
It runs past hopeful daughters,
Past bridges, wooden planks,

It cuts behind the churchouse,
Past shadows knelt at graves,
And flows into the river,
Where ships once sailed with slaves,

The clear cold cutting water,
Is one of many brooks,
Small to the swirling river,
Or geographic books,

So many others like it,
So many tracks they'd plow,
No longer carry liquid ice,
Just empty creek beds now,

Some think someday this creek will die,
Just like the others do,
Some think someday the kids will cry,
Whose yards it bubbled through,

But years from then and far from there,
A feeling still persists,
That water only we could bear,
Still carves those bends and dips,

That bright young eyes into it stare,
That over it girls skip,
A brook like that is now so rare,
They'll all remember it.