The speaker remembers a day of small, bright discoveries beside a stream. A companion lifts brook trout from a basket—fish she sees as glittering “fairy blades of sun and moonlight.” She in turn holds up handfuls of pink, green, and white flowers and names them wood anemones. There is a gentle, playful pride in the way they show each other these treasures and say their names aloud. But the deepest moment goes unnamed and unannounced: together they lean over a fallen willow and release a large, breathless fish back into the water. That last act becomes a private keepsake. The mood is tender, hushed, and faintly magical—less about what was kept than about what the two chose to share only with each other and then keep silent.
Keepsake — Summary
You said they were brook trout — Those fairy blades of sun and moonlight You so gravely lifted out One by one from your basket on the grass. And I held up two handfuls Of pink and green and white For everyone to see, And called the colors by a name, Wood-anemone.
But of all those little dreams in cups Left brimming over on the moss, And of that big, breathless one We leaned across The fallen willow to give back again To deep and shoal — We never said a word, We never told a soul!