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Keepsake
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,