The Weir
Where mossy boulders make a weir,
The brook's brown water is so clear
One sees each small brown stone within
Distinctly, when the sun is in.
But when the sun's out, 'tis a glass
Filled full of leaves and boughs, with grass
At edge, and here and there a bit
Of cloud or sky deep down in it.
Deep down the blue sky seems to be;
The poor brown stones you cannot see.
When little puffs of coolness make
The water warp, the foliage shake,
A thousand trees seem dancing up
From darkness in the crystal cup.
With soul for water, sense for weir,
Man sees his mortal image here.
He counts each poor brown stone within
Distinctly, when his sun is in.
With Heaven to help, he feels no less
Unfathomed depths of loveliness.
