By June our brook's run out of song and speed. <br />Sought for much after that, it will be found <br />Either to have gone groping underground <br />(And taken with it all the Hyla breed <br />That shouted in the mist a month ago, <br />Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow)-- <br />Or flourished and come up in jewel-weed, <br />Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent <br />Even against the way its waters went. <br />Its bed is left a faded paper sheet <br />Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat-- <br />A brook to none but who remember long. <br />This as it will be seen is other far <br />Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song. <br />We love the things we love for what they are.<br /><br />Robert Lee Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hyla-brook-2/
