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By June our
brook's run out of song and speed.
Sought for much
after that, it will be found
Either to have gone
groping underground
(And taken with it all the Hyla
breed
That shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like
ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow)-
Or
flourished and come up in jewel-weed,
Weak foliage
that is blown upon and bent
Even against the way its
waters went.
Its bed is left a faded paper sheet
Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat-
A brook to
none but who remember long.
This as it will be seen
is other far
Than with brooks taken otherwhere in
song.
We love the things we love for what they are.
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