THE PADDOCK
Song of the Creek.
Where the youngest grass
Of the mountain-pass
By the melting snow is lipp’d,
Little by little, drop by drop,
Over the rocks I dripp’d.
Only the mountain-mosses saw,
And the mountain-daisies sipp’d.
Then, shyly, secretly,
Stealing out of sight,
I crept where the folded
Forest holds the night;
And there, amid the darkness
Inviolably hid,
Onward, downward,
I trickled, and I slid:
Moistening the fallen leaves,
Soaking thro’ the moss,
This boulder underneath,
That one across:
Scattering, spattering,
Twisting on again,
Gathering in the dewy Dusk,
Growing in the Rain:
Down, down, and still down,
On I hurried, on!
Glad to be coming—
Gladder to be gone!
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