Classic Poem

Little enchanted leaf,
Apart from the tree yet of it,
The magic of water made you
That so you love it;
The brook gave you a voice,
Dew drops your eyes,
Your little watery soul
From a mist did rise;
And so you're ever trilling,
While rain is rilling,
For sheer delight
In its wetness bright,—
And so you're ever crooning
With muted glee
While the wind his harp is tuning
To a higher key,
For well you know
When he doth so,
Full soon he'll strike the chord of power
That brings a shower,
And while the rain is rilling
Again you will be trilling:—

“Tree! Tree! Tree!
Dr-rink Dr-rink!
Creek! Creek! Creek!
Br-rim a-br-rink!
Dr-r-r-ops in millions,
Billions, tr-r-r-illions!”

It is ecstasy to be
A little green frog on a tree
When rain is rilling,
When summer showers are shrilling.