My Roving Art Poem by Julian Mann

With an infant's joy I view the brook,
Its many wonders pass my eye:
A restless leaf the land forsook;
Ripples that beg the wind's reply.

I long to walk its banks by night,
And hear the waters trickle then;
Doubtless sweeter in sound and sight
As moonlight graces every bend.

The fields around me would in silver abound,
And as far as I could see,
Trees and spires would all be crowned,
Delighting in some old glory.

Then I'd weep to have found my place,
But no sadness from my heart,
For I left the pain where it could not trace
Me to my roving art.