The Wood Brook

Like some wild child that laughs and weeps,     Impatient of its mother's arms,     The wood brook from the hillside leaps,     Eager to reach the neighboring farms:     Complaining crystal in its throat     It whimpers a protesting note.     The wildflowers that the forest weaves     To deck it with are thrust aside;     And all the little happy leaves,     That would detain it, are denied:     It must be gone; it does not care;     Away, away, no matter where.     Ah, if it knew what work awaits     Beyond the woodland's peaceful breast!     What toil and soil of man's estates!     What contact with life's sorriest,     A different mind it then might keep,     And hush its frenzy into sleep.     Make of its trouble there a pool,     A dim circumference filled with sky     And trees, wherein the beautiful     Contemplates silence with a sigh,     As mind communicates with mind     Of intimate things they have in kind.     Encircled of the wood's repose,     Contentment then to it would give     The peace of lily and of rose,     And love of all wild things that live;     And let it serve as looking-glass     For myths and dreams the wildwood has.