The Brook

It was a place of beauty,
A sylvian retreat,
Off from the public highway,
Sacred to children's feet.

But now the brook has vanished.
The bed alone you see.
The swamp is drained and dried out.
The Spring rains run off free.

The speckled trout no longer
Adorn the shining stream.
All, all has passed as surely
As does a morning dream.

No pond is here to greet you.
Here children bathe no more.
A tangle of rude bushes
Cover the stoney floor.

The brook will comeback never
Because Its fonts are dry.
But fields and orchards flourish,
So why should any sigh?
A swamp, one never failing,
Gave to the brook its birth,
And through the driest Summer
The brook refreshed the earth.

Once speckled trout were swarming
within the waters cool
They darted through its shallows,
They hid in each deep pool.

And little boys pursued them
With hook and grassy snare,
From rilling waters dipped them
With buckets plied with care.

With a strong dam they mmanaged
To form a goodly pond,
In which to play for hours,
of bathing they were fond.

And they would sail upon it
on rafts of cedar made,
Propelled by constant labour,
A strong stout pole for aid.

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