By June our brook’s run out of song and speed.

Sought for much after that， it will be found

Either to have gone groping underground

(And taken with it all the Hyla breed

That shouted in the mist a month ago，

Like ghost of sleigh bells in a ghost of snow)

Or flourished and come up in jewelweed，

Weak foliage that is blown upon land bent

Even against the way its waters wnt.

Its bed is left a faded paper sheet

Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat

A brook to none but who remember long.

This as it will be seen is other far

Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song.

We love the things we love for what they are.