TO THE SPRING AND BROOK
So, still sauntering on, to the spring under the willows--musical as
soft clinking glasses-pouring a sizeable stream, thick as my neck,
pure and clear, out from its vent where the bank arches over like
a great brown shaggy eyebrow or mouth-roof--gurgling, gurgling
ceaselessly--meaning, saying something, of course (if one could only
translate it)--always gurgling there, the whole year through--never
giving out--oceans of mint, blackberries in summer--choice of light
and shade--just the place for my July sun-baths and water-baths
too--but mainly the inimitable soft sound-gurgles of it, as I sit
there hot afternoons. How they and all grow into me, day after
day--everything in keeping--the wild, just-palpable perfume, and the
dappled leaf-shadows, and all the natural-medicinal, elemental-moral
influences of the spot.
Babble on, O brook, with that utterance of thine! I too will express
what I have gather'd in my days and progress, native, subterranean,
past--and now thee. Spin and wind thy way--I with thee, a little
while, at any rate. As I haunt thee so often, season by season, thou
knowest, reckest not me, (yet why be so certain? who can tell?)--but
I will learn from thee, and dwell on thee--receive, copy, print from
thee.
AN EARLY SUMMER REVEILLE
Away then to loosen, to unstring the divine bow, so tense, so long.
Away, from curtain, carpet, sofa, book--from "society"--from city
house, street, and modern improvements and luxuries--away to the
primitive winding, aforementioned wooded creek, with its untrimm'd
bushes and turfy banks--away from ligatures, tight boots, buttons,
and the whole cast-iron civilized life--from entourage of artificial
store, machine, studio, office, parlor--from tailordom and fashion's
clothes--from any clothes, perhaps, for the nonce, the summer heats
advancing, there in those watery, shaded solitudes.
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