/ am sitting on a mossy log with an open 

 hooli on my knee. At my feet a little spring puts 

 forth its trickling runnel. The jvell is clear and 

 strong, a voice of nature which says, "Sound, 

 sound, rise and flow on." Water is not aware of 

 the academies and the ohsoletes; possibly this is 

 why its noise is so charming in these cool places of 

 the woods. Overhead the crowded, dusky leaves 

 shake with a sound of multitudinous kissing, and 

 one trim wood-thrush goes like a shadow through 

 the bosket yonder, piping a liquid, haunting 

 phrase, which wavers between the extremes of joy 

 and pain. There is just enough light to read 

 Keats by — the light of neither sea nor land, 

 the soft crepuscule of a thick forest. 



Maurice Thompson, 



"My Winter Garden" 



179 



