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