  I HAVE a longing for a hill 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. Petals float down and mingle with Ribbons of grass while I Am conscious that I am dreaming, And writing while I sigh. |
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