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Where the youngest grass Of the mountain-pass By the melting snow is lipp’d, Little by little, drop by drop, Over the rocks I dripp’d. Only the mountain-mosses saw, And the mountain-daisies sipp’d.

Then, shyly, secretly, Stealing out of sight, I crept where the folded Forest holds the night; And there, amid the darkness Inviolably hid, Onward, downward, I trickled, and I slid: Moistening the fallen leaves, Soaking thro’ the moss, This boulder underneath, That one across: Scattering, spattering, Twisting on again, Gathering in the dewy Dusk, Growing in the Rain: Down, down, and still down, On I hurried, on! Glad to be coming— Gladder to be gone!