Brook Morning.

Sungleam and shadow-play,
All on my waterway,
Trickle and bubble and rush over stone;
White gleam of pebbled sweep;
Gold-glint within the deep,
Song in the heart of you sings to my own.
Whispering stir of reeds,
Wet drops on water-weeds,
Flash of swift shadows where fish dart away;
Brown flats on either hand,
Curve of white-throated strand,
Crystal bird-ripples across the young day.
Waves of the willow-fronds,
White crowds of bamboo wands,
Feather of toi-tois, and leaves russet-red;
Painted trees lean and look,
Into the silver brook.
Laughing and leaping, dew-fleck'd and snow-fed.
Over stones bronze and grey,
Pallid, and jewel-gay,
Surging and stumbling and slipping along;
White in a snowy surge,
Blue-green where shadows merge,
Changing forever, yet singing one song.
Sungleam and shadow-play,
All on my waterway,
Trickle and bubble and rush over stone;
While the smooth pebble's worn;
All through the laughing morn
The song in the heart of you sings to my own.

—R. M. O'Brien.