Where the rivulet swept by a sycamore root
With a turbulent voice and a hurrying foot,
I bent by the water and spoke in my dream
To the wavering, restless, unlingering stream:
"Oh, turbulent rivulet hastening past,
For what wonderful goal do you hope at the last
That never you pause in the shimmering green
Of the undulant shade where the sycamores lean
Or rest in the moss-curtained, cool dripping halls
Hidden under the veils of your musical falls
Or loiter at peace by the tremulous fern—
White wandering waters that never return?"
And I dreamed by the rivulet's wavering side
That a myriad ripple of voices replied:
"Aloft on the mountain, afar on the steep,
A voice that we knew cried aloud in our sleep,
'Come, hasten ye down to the vale and to me,
Your begetter, destroyer, preserver, the Sea!'
We must carry our feebleness down to the Strong,
We must mingle us deep in the Whole, and ere long
All the numberless host of the heaven shall ride
With the pale Lady Moon on our slumbering tide."
The voices swept out and away through the door
Of the canyon, and on to the infinite shore.
Oh, vast in thy destiny, slender of span,
Wild rivulet, how thou art like to a man!
( Cold Brook, California, 1912)