A WATER-COLOR.
Reading edition
Low hidden in among the forest trees An artist's tilted easel, ankle-deep In tousled ferns and mosses, and in these A fluffy water-spaniel, half asleep Beside a sketch-book and a fallen hat— A little wicker flask tossed into that.
A sense of utter carelessness and grace Of pure abandon in the slumb'rous scene,— As if the June, all hoydenish of face, Had romped herself to sleep there on the green, And brink and sagging bridge and sliding stream Were just romantic parcels of her dream.