Anne had brought glasses and lemonade for her guests , but for her own part drank cold brook water from a cup fashioned out of birch bark . The cup leaked , and the water tasted of earth , as brook water is apt to do in spring ; but Anne thought it more appropriate to the occasion than lemonade . `` Look do you see that poem ? '' she said suddenly , pointing . `` Where ? '' Jane and Diana stared , as if expecting to see Runic rhymes on the birch trees . `` There ... down in the brook ... that old green , mossy log with the water flowing over it in those smooth ripples that look as if they 'd been combed , and that single shaft of sunshine falling right athwart it , far down into the pool . Oh , it 's the most beautiful poem I ever saw . '' `` I should rather call it a picture , '' said Jane . `` A poem is lines and verses . '' `` Oh dear me , no . '' Anne shook her head with its fluffy wild cherry coronal positively . `` The lines and verses are only the outward garments of the poem and are no more really it than your ruffles and flounces are YOU , Jane . The real poem is the soul within them ... and that beautiful bit is the soul of an unwritten poem . It is not every day one sees a soul ... even of a poem . '' `` I wonder what a soul ... a person 's soul ... would look like , '' said Priscilla dreamily . `` Like that , I should think , '' answered Anne , pointing to a radiance of sifted sunlight streaming through a birch tree . `` Only with shape and features of course . I like to fancy souls as being made of light . And some are all shot through with rosy stains and quivers ... and some have a soft glitter like moonlight on the sea ... and some are pale and transparent like mist at dawn . ''
`` I read somewhere once XXXXX souls were like flowers , '' said Priscilla .
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