I think of this meager stream more than any mighty river. It is the memory of my love and our transitory happiness.

There is a little unpretending Rill

— by William Wordsworth

There is a little unpretending Rill Of limpid water, humbler far than aught That ever among Men or Naiads sought Notice or name!—It quivers down the hill, Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will; Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought Of private recollection sweet and still! Months perish with their moons; year treads on year! But, faithful Emma! thou with me canst say That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear, And flies their memory fast almost as they; The immortal Spirit of one happy day Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.