When the surface of the brook is silent,
it’s sonatas waltzing in the oak leaves,
all warm and gold in their sweet-smelt shades of age;
when the azure bathes in cloud-grey
to crown the red dressed earth,
which summoned down its celebration colours;
then is the wisest of times to stand
on a bridge overlooking the creek
and to hear in the rustle the echoes of thoughts
abandoned in streamside reflection.
When the forest is festive and alone;
when the world is bright and dreary;
when the earth is most beautiful, living nearly dead.
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