  I Under rocks whereon the rose Like a strip of morning glows; Where the azure-throated newt Drowses on the twisted root; And the brown bees, humming homeward, Stop to suck the honey-dew; Fern and leaf-hid, gleaming gloamward, Drips the wildwood spring I knew, Drips the spring my boyhood knew. II Myrrh and music everywhere Haunt its cascades;—like the hair Swimming strangely beautiful, With white fragrance for her bosom, For her mouth a breath of song:— Under leaf and branch and blossom Flows the woodland spring along, Sparkling, singing flows along. III Still the wet wan mornings touch Its gray rocks, perhaps; and such Slender stars as dusk may have Pierce the rose that roofs its wave; Still the thrush may call at noontide And the whippoorwill at night; Nevermore, by sun or moontide, Shall I see it gliding white, Falling, flowing, wild and white. |
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