The Brook Poem by Ina Coolbrith

THROUGH the dreary winter,
Ice-locked, white, and chill!
All its laughter sleeping,
All its music still;
Not a flower to love it
From the bank above it;
Not a bird to trill,
In its ripples laving
Yellow wing and bill;
No green, shadowy silence,
Where one may go at will,
And dream and dream one's fill.

Without voice or color,
In a barren land:
Dripping skies bent over,
Dripping skies that stand,
Forlorn, on either hand.

But a little sunshine—
How its voice shall wake!
Over sand and pebble
Ring the silver treble,
Glad for summer's sake!

Fairy boats shall ride it,
Lovers walk beside it,
Birds build in the brake;
Flowers and flowering sedges
Laugh along its edges—
Glad, for summer's sake!
Just a little sunshine,
And the clouds will part;
All its fettered beauty
Into life will start.
Be glad, thou shining rover.
With bird, and bee, and clover:
Sing summer through and over,
Ah, happy that thou art! . . .
Just a little sunshine —
O my heart, my heart!