With every bird that flies.
A spruce, an elm, a tamarack;
Dear heaven, how can there be
A lovelier name, and how I wish
They’d given one to me.
{49}
Middle Creek, W. Va.
I HAVE a longing for a hill
I
A passion for small streams.
And there’s a creek that winds itself
Among my muted dreams.
A tumbling stream, you know the kind,
With water running clear,
Where birds might bathe between its songs
And pilgrims hover near.
It twines itself, love-fashion, round
A flowering tree, then worms—
And oozes in between the roots,
Of sycamores and ferns.
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