Woodland Waters
Through leaves of the nodding trees
Where blossoms sway in the breeze,
Pink bag-pipes make for the bees,
Whose slogan is droning and drawling,
Where columbine scatters its bells
And the wild bleeding-heart its shells
O’er mosses and rocks of the dells
The brook of the forest is calling.
You can hear it under the hill
When the wind in the wood is still,
And, strokes of a fairy drill,
Sounds the bill of the yellow-hammer.
By the Solomon’s seal it slips
Cohosh and the grass that drips
Like the sound of an Undine’s lips
Is the sound of its falls that stammer.
Madison Cawein.