Classic Poem

There, where it was, we never noticed how,
Flirting its tail among the smoothed-off rocks,
The brook would spray the old, worm-eaten bough,
That squeaked and scratched like puppies in a box.

Whether the black, half-rotted branch leaned down,
Or seemed to lean, for love, or weariness
Of life too long lived out, or hoped to drown
Its litter of last year's leaves, we could not guess.

Perhaps the bough relaxed as though it meant
To give its leaves their one taste of depravity;
Or, being near the grave itself, it bent
Because of nothing more than gravity.