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 watercourse that dowers

This winding meadow-land with music’s boon.

Caught in a shimmering net of sight and sound,

And drawn, I know not whither, yet aware

Am I of some soft touch, and, blown around

My face, the plenitude of waving hair—

Nay, let me lie and dream this wondrous thing;

My hand, one moment, held the hand of Spring!