MY BROOK

Earth holds no sweeter secret anywhere

Than this my brook, that lisps along the green

Of mossy channels, where slim birch trees lean

Like tall pale ladies whose delicious hair

Lures and invites the kiss of wanton air.

The smooth soft grasses, delicate between

The rougher stalks, by waifs alone are seen,

Shy things that live in sweet seclusion there.

And is it still the same, and do these eyes

Of every silver ripple meet the trees

That bend above like guarding emerald skies?

I turn — who read the city's beggared book

And hear across the moan of many seas

The whisper and the laughter of my brook.