Hidden Forces

SHE watched the winding brook steal from the shade
Of sombre pines, where it had loitered long,
And, leaving all its dusky ambuscade,
Run down the sunny slope with merry song.
“ Oh, happy brook,” she sighed, “ dost not regret,
Within that gloomy copse, thy lingering?”
The brook laughed low. “In that dark wood are set,”
It said, “the springs that give me strength to sing.”
A. M. Libby.