Comradery

With eyes hand-arched he looks into The morning's face; then turns away With truant feet, all wet with dew, Out for a holiday. The hill brook sings; incessant stars, Foam-fashioned, on its restless breast; And where he wades its water-bars Its song is happiest. A comrade of the chinquapin, He looks into its knotty eyes And sees its heart; and, deep within, Its soul that makes him wise. The wood-thrush knows and follows him, Who whistles up the birds and bees; And round him all the perfumes swim Of woodland loam and trees. Where'er he pass the silvery springs' Foam-people sing the flowers awake; And sappy lips of bark-clad things Laugh ripe each berried brake. His touch is a companionship; His word an old authority: He comes, a lyric on his lip, The woodboy-Poesy.