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A Brook in the City

 The firm house lingers, though averse to square
With the new city street it has to wear A number in.
But what about the brook That held the house as in an elbow-crook? I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength And impulse, having dipped a finger length And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed A flower to try its currents where they crossed.
The meadow grass could be cemented down From growing under pavements of a town; The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook the same? How else dispose of an immortal force No longer needed? Staunch it at its source With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone In fetid darkness still to live and run - And all for nothing it hd ever done Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would know except for ancient maps That such a brook ran water.
But I wonder If from its being kept forever under The thoughts may not have risen that so keep This new-built city from both work and sleep.

Poem by Robert Frost
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