SO, still sauntering on, to the spring under the willowsmusical as soft clinking glassespouring 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-roofgurgling, gurgling ceaselesslymeaning, saying something, of course (if one could only translate it)always gurgling there, the whole year throughnever giving outoceans of mint, blackberries in summerchoice of light and shadejust the place for my July sun-baths and water-baths toobut mainly the inimitable soft sound-gurgles of it, as I sit there hot afternoons. How they and all grow into me, day after dayeverything in keepingthe wild, just-palpable perfume, and the dapple of 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 gatherd in my days and progress, native, subterranean, pastand now thee. Spin and wind thy wayI 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 theereceive, copy, print from thee.