The Brook
(Westfield, N. Y.)
Curling and humming its cadences,
It slips past me under the rim of the gorge,
As I peer down through the scarlet sumacs.
Sparkling in the sunlight,
Shimmering in the moonlight,
On and on it goes,
A silvery sheet of song.
In Eden Valley
I saw
A spray of orange berries etched against the silver of a stone wall:
A scarlet vine encircling a golden sapling;
On the ground, a carmine robe that had slipped from the shoulders of a maple.
A sweep of meadow,
A curve of bronzy hill,
A glow of ruby and amethyst
And the evergreens making deep quiet spots in it.