Running Water.

Through the steep wooded valley clear it sings,

Leaping and gliding as it flows along,

Tender its crooning to all tender things Strong-voiced to lusty strong.

Cascading water shot with rainbow light,

Soft-slipping shadows where the burn trout lies,

Ever and ever, endless day and night, Voices of music rise.

What have you caught and held, to give again,

Oh, running water, by great mountains fed,

Patter on myriad leaves of summer rain,

The shy fawn's velvet tread.

Flutter of countless wings when dusk descends,

Morn—and the fluting tui's liquid call,

Whisper of breeze that soft the treetops bend;

Your heart has heard them all.

The mighty roll of thunder o'er the hill,

The roaring storm wind through the forest call;

Then, in the silence when his voice is still,

The old tree-giant fall.

The great stag's voice that bells the quiet night,

Wild rain that floods your breast and none can staunch,

And the grim warning from the mountain height

Of falling avalanche.

Leaping and gliding, singing endlessly, All this it hears, yet one thing never knows;

Oh, water running to the far-off sea—The silence of repose.

—A. Bowyer Poynter.

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