Under the Waterfall by Thomas Hardy — Read

"WHENEVER I plunge my arm, like this, / In a basin of water, I never miss / The sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day / Fetched back from its thickening shroud of gray. / Hence the only prime / And real love-rhyme / That I know by heart, / And that leaves no smart, / Is the purl of a little valley fall / About three spans wide and two spans tall / Over a table of solid rock, / And into a scoop of the self-same block; / The purl of a runlet that never ceases / In stir of kingdoms, in wars, in peaces; / With a hollow boiling voice it speaks / And has spoken since hills were turfless peaks."

"And why gives this the only prime / Idea to you of a real love-rhyme? / And why does plunging your arm in a bowl / Full of spring water, bring throbs to your soul?"