Lines, to Mary

The brook goes winding like a snake
Through many crooks and turns
Loud are the gurgles which it makes
Like music—and then mourns
The thorn leans o'er its mimic waves
That o'er the pebbles run
The mimic foam in dark place raves
Then crimples in the sun.

Will Mary teach me how to love,
Or nature how to woo
The brook below the clouds above
Each others track pursue
Do breezes speak fond woman’s name
Are portraits seen in flowers
Of those we love yet dare not claim
In springs delightful hours.

Yes in this brook I sit beside
Her voice like music dwells
The flower her presence shows with pride
And loves true story tells
The very birds within the hedge
Love's happy thoughts proclaim
All heard or seen in Spring’s first pledge
Seem speaking Mary’s name.

March/44