​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)