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I. L. Salomon, brook, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeI. L. Salomon

Indwelling

No one has ever heard The song of a brook reply To watersong that startles The listener passing by. And still the voice of the brook Sings in its varied course, Yet never the self-same voice Reveals the pulse at its source. Except for a surface freeze And a trickle or two in ice, No one has ever touched Running water twice. Music falls from the rock That yields not any response. Something like heaven's withheld To be touched, if at all, but once.
SadI. L. Salomon

The Fawn

Brought up short by the sight of me Invading her mountain privacy, How could the fawn count me as one Who walked the woods without a gun? Unmoving, bound, her living sense Apprised of our alien difference, She stood for an instant at the brook As terror held her stiff as rock. How could she tell my hunger apart From the hungry urge of the hunter's heart, Or know the singing in me was Her beauty burnishing the grass? Eyes that were gentle fires became Desperately dark with flame As if her wary nerves defined The aching tremor of the mind.
ContemplativeI. L. Salomon

World in the Woods

Though the ill-used path and trodden fern Told of no song, the animate word Of water like a chattering bird Livened the brook at tree-root and turn. And here where the sun seldom achieves Solar perspective, a young deer's skull Lay topside up—an unbeautiful Relic allotted to last year's leaves. With my boot I gingerly touched the thin Papery bone that flaked at once, As a knob of snow after winter suns Trickled drop by drop on the under-chin. Music the bird-voiced water told Closed on my heart, not unaware Of the useless skull, as the brook's loud air And the intimate song in the vein ran cold.
ContemplativeI. L. Salomon

Song for the Greenwood Fawn

The greenwood fawn at the hidden brook In the green green wood, O lovely! Shudders a fly off her dappled coat And watches a leaf, light raft afloat, Skip and swirl to the edge of the pool, Where the shadows of stone are shaded cool, Nor ever moves on her hornèd hooves In the green green wood, O lovely! The greenwood fawn sees her own shy face The silver water mirrors, And the water washes her black furred nose, As a dragonfly in emerald clothes Darts from a branch to a stunted hedge And swoops past a shrub to light on a ledge, Where a trout shoots by, sleek submarine, Dark green against the summer green,

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