At a Brookside
A RUNNING melody is in the noon
Of grass-bound rivulet and tangled showers,
Of sunlight, glancing through the cuckoo flowers
To mingle golden ripples with the tune;
In the wide light my senses seem to swoon,
Drugged by the monotone of rhythmic hours
And voice of spring-fed rivulet that dowers
The winding meadow-land with music’s boon.
Caught in a shimmering net of sight and sound,
And drawn, I know not wither, yet aware
Am I of some soft touch, and, blown around
My face, the plentitude of waving hair—
Nay, let me lie and dream this wondrous thing;
My hand, one moment, held the hand of spring!
