He glanced at the leaves, that had copied his breast,
The leaves that in springtime had shielded his nest;
Then turning his head with a bird like grace,
He searched in the stream for his mirrored face.
Not his mottled coat of rusty brown
He saw in the brook-bed sloping down,
But a touch of gray with an amber dab—
The reflected form of a brooklet crab.
He gazed in surprise at the specter-like thing,
Then chirping aloud and raising each wing,