Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Going for Water
By Robert Frost
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;
Because the autumn eve was fair
(Though chill) because the fields were ours,
And by the brook our woods were there.
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon.
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard—we knew we heard—the brook.
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade.