In the oldest wood I know a brooklet That bubbles over stones and roots, And ripples out of hollow places, Like music out of flutes. There creeps the pungent breath of cedars, Rich coolness wraps the air about While through clear pools electric flashes Betray the watchful trout. I know where wild things lurk and linger In groves as gray and grand as time; I know where God has written poems Too strong for words or rhyme. --Maurice Thompson
Folk Song of the American Negro by John Wesley Work (1915)
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The Well-Educated Mother's Heart
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