By the Millpond, Musing

Beside the millpond, musing, Of another day and time— At times my mind confusing Both reality, and rhyme. It is an easy thing to do, you see, With the buckets timely turn— What is this thing called poetry, What from it do we learn? Seems with every splash, and breath of breeze, Do my thoughts go out to play— About the mill and stand of trees, I can hear them smiling say: Take leave of all unpleasant things, Fling open daydream’s gate— Think now of clouds; the swell of springs, For the morrow, it will wait. So I set my worries finally free, To skip, and play, and roam— By the millpond, just my thoughts and me, As the water spilled to foam. Then I put away the imagery; The meter, and the rhyme— Give no more thought to poetry, Neither toil, task nor time!