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The firm
house lingers, though averse to square
With the new
city street it has to wear A number in.
But what
about the brook That held the house as in an
elbow-crook?
I ask as one who knew the brook, its
strength
And impulse, having dipped a finger length
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
A flower
to try its currents where they crossed.
The meadow
grass could be cemented down
From growing under
pavements of a town;
The apple trees be sent to
hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook
the same?
How else dispose of an immortal force
No
longer needed? Staunch it at its source
With cinder
loads dumped down? The brook was
thrown Deep in a
sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to
live and run -
And all for nothing it hd ever done
Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would
know except for ancient maps
That such a brook ran
water. But I wonder
If from its being kept forever
under
The thoughts may not have risen that so keep
This new-built city from both work and sleep.
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