Hamlen Brook

At the alder-darkened brinkWhere the stream slows to a lucid jetI lean to the water, dinting its top with sweat,And see, before I can drink,

A startled inchling troutOf spotted near-transparency,Trawling a shadow solider than he.He swerves now, darting out

To where, in a flicked slewOf sparks and glittering silt, he weavesThrough stream-bed rocks, disturbing foundered leaves,And butts then out of view

Beneath a sliding glassCrazed by the skimming of a braceOf burnished dragon-flies across its face,In which deep cloudlets pass

And a white precipiceOf mirrored birch-trees plunges downToward where the azures of the zenith drown.How shall I drink all this?

Joy’s trick is to supplyDry lips with what can cool and slake,Leaving them dumbstruck also with an acheNothing can satisfy.

Richard Wilbur, “Hamlen Brook” from Collected Poems 1943-2004.