Comradery, by Madison Cawein

  With eyes hand-arched he looks into
  The morning's face; then turns away
  With truant feet, all wet with dew,
  Out for a holiday.

  The hill brook sings; incessant stars,
  Foam-fashioned, on its restless breast;
  And where he wades its water-bars
  Its song is happiest.

  A comrade of the chinquapin,
  He looks into its knotty eyes
  And sees its heart; and, deep within,
  Its soul that makes him wise.

  The wood-thrush knows and follows him,
  Who whistles up the birds and bees;
  And round him all the perfumes swim
  Of woodland loam and trees.

  Where'er he pass the silvery springs'
  Foam-people sing the flowers awake;
  And sappy lips of bark-clad things
  Laugh ripe each berried brake.

  His touch is a companionship;
  His word an old authority:
  He comes, a lyric on his lip,
  The woodboy—Poesy.