[The Trout Brook]
The airs that blew from the brink of day
Were fresh and wet with the breath of May.
I heard the babble of brown brooks falling,
And golden-wings in the woodside calling.
Big drops hung from the sparkling eaves;
And through the screen of the thin young leaves
A glint of ripples, a whirl of foam,
Lured and beckoned me out from home.