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