THE ASS A BET BROOK AND RIVER 2/3
You stand forlorn in wastes of snow, And I in wastes of care.
Time's frosts must bleach my locks of black,
As snows your every bough ; To vanished joys we both look back,
And ask, " Where are they now ? "
��THE ASSABET BROOK AND RIVER. '^
Born on hills and nursed by springs, Its little waves, like outstretched wings Feathered with foam, all snowy white. Waft it adown, how swift I how light ! From uplands brown, where browsing flocks Crop a scant meal amongst the rocks. To meadows green and fertile fields. Where earth her richest harvest yields, Until its waters, clear and cool. Enter my favorite bathing pool. Here in content so still they lie. Reflecting a scarce ruffled sky, That in calm days the place might pass For fair Narcissus' looking-glass — All mute, save where a tinkling fall Spills amongst hemlocks dark and tall, And round the roots of each old tree Curls with a whispering melody. Where the trunk of blasted pine, Wreathed around with many a vine. All of boughs and bark bereft. Weak and trembling, spans the cleft. While yet another mounted higher. Propped by green banks of sweetbrier.
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