A Water Color
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 sketchbook 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.
From 'Green Fields and Running Brooks'
by James Whitcomb Riley 1892