The Brook Beneath The Snow

The little brook beneath the snow

     Tells wondrous tales to me;

I bend and listen to its flow,

     Of magic minstrelsy.

I hear its voice but cannot see

     It play beneath the snow;

But this is what it says to me

     In gurgling accents low:

“O hunter, fisher, pause, I pray,

     Today I lonely feel;

In summertime you while away

     Long hours with rod and reel;

But now in winter you would pass

     Me by with careless ear;

Pray stop a moment, for alas,

     It’s dark and lonely here.”

And so I list in pure delight,

     Its wondrous tales to know;

Resolving never more to slight

     The brook beneath the snow.

Nov. 9, ‘98

Pub. in Field and Stream,

                           Jan. ‘99