Classic Poem

Call it river or call it brook,
Give me the shady Aspetook!
Far-heard within the Summer hush,
The music of its prattling rush
Robs not the valley of repose;
And whether it pauses or whether it flows,
It makes a never-ceasing call
To the urchins of dreamy Merryall.

The boy in wild-grape-scented June
Through open windows hears the tune,
And, caught in the thrall of Aspetook,
For longing cannot see his book;
His hope plays truant to his fear.
Seasons there are for sled and ball,
But Aspetook through all the year
Beckons the boys of Merryall.

Past the thick refuge of the deer,
Yet within sound of chanticleer,
Through green-arched tunnels of delight
It breaks into the sunny air
To greet the bathers of “Monverre”;
Then hurries round the rocks in flight,
As though the world were waiting all
For news of drowsy Merryall!

Some day my feet will follow down
Its gentler current toward the sea,
To find its merge by Milford town
Where calms of Housatonic be.
Today I'll mount through shade and gleam,
Wade my cool way against the stream,
And challenge every swirl and fall
Of Aspetook to Merryall.