It was dawn, and the world's crush
had left her blush upon the morning's face.
The cobbled foot bridge, still as the stone
out of which it was etched spanned the
fanning waters in a grace
beyond what masonry can sketch.
Shadows deepened the look
of the flowing stream
as its surface swirled and dipped,
dappled here and there with autumn care
which left the trees and slipped,
supported by its icy grip
beneath my old stone bridge.
It was picturesque and perfect.
With a vitality that only autumn can achieve.
And as I stood above the mountain stream
I wondered how this scene had been conceived.
This treasure so devised to please the eyes of
both the learned and the naive.