 | Poems: Second Series |  |
79
THE RIVER.
Brown and brimming and flecked with foam,
Wandering down to your distant home,
Tell me O river! whence do you flow?
And what becomes of you far below?
Wandering down to your distant home,
Tell me O river! whence do you flow?
And what becomes of you far below?
What is your answer? the foam bells speak
Of heathery wastes and a mossy streak,
And the ripples tell of a sandy shore,
And salt sea marshes and ocean's roar.
Of heathery wastes and a mossy streak,
And the ripples tell of a sandy shore,
And salt sea marshes and ocean's roar.
But far above is the emerald moss,
And far below do the billows toss,
And life is short, and the sun is bright,
And the shadows say “it will soon be night.”
And far below do the billows toss,
And life is short, and the sun is bright,
And the shadows say “it will soon be night.”
So under the elm trees' branching shade
I'll sit till the light begins to fade,
And watch how the eddies of foam go by,
And ask not whither or whence or why.
I'll sit till the light begins to fade,
And watch how the eddies of foam go by,
And ask not whither or whence or why.
And still the waters are hurrying down,
And still they are near me brimming and brown,
And still they change and are still the same—
As they flow to the fountain whence they came.
And still they are near me brimming and brown,
And still they change and are still the same—
As they flow to the fountain whence they came.
| Poems: Second Series | |