Standing-Stone Creek.

A weed-grown slope, whereon the rain      Has washed the brown rocks bare,     Leads tangled from a lonely lane      Down to a creek's broad stair     Of stone, that, through the solitude,     Winds onward to a quiet wood.     An intermittent roof of shade      The beech above it throws;     Along its steps a balustrade      Of beauty builds the rose;     In which, a stately lamp of green     At intervals the cedar's seen.     The water, carpeting each ledge      Of rock that runs across,     Glints 'twixt a flow'r-embroidered edge      Of ferns and grass and moss;     And in its deeps the wood and sky     Seem patterns of the softest dye.     Long corridors of pleasant dusk      Within the house of leaves     It reaches; where, on looms of musk,      The ceaseless locust weaves     A web of summer; and perfume     Trails a sweet gown from room to room.     Green windows of the boughs, that swing,      It passes, where the notes     Of birds are glad thoughts entering,      And butterflies are motes;     And now a vista where the day     Opens a door of wind and ray.     It is a stairway for all sounds      That haunt the woodland sides;     On which, boy-like, the southwind bounds,      Girl-like, the sunbeam glides;     And, like fond parents, following these,     The oldtime dreams of rest and peace.