by Patience Worth
Lo, the valley!
The harp, suspended betwixt the mountains,
Murmuring the music of Earth
To the great breasts whereon the sky is pillowed.
Lo, the river!
A necklet hung upon the throat of the field,
Whispering the chatter of the field folk,
Singing full of echoes stored,
Snatches of the songs of shepherds,
Trills of the nightingales,
The exultant peal of the morning lark,
The cooing of the wood dove,
And the bleats of the young sheep.
Lo, all of these are the river's song.
And the banks sweep against it,
Stroking its cheek, the pale cheek of the water,
With soft tassels and softer mosses,
Or smiting its cheek with the edge
Of a reed or marsh grass.
Lo, the voice of the river is uncomplaining,
Murmuring confidently, surely moving
Forward with its burden of sounds,
To whisper a confidence to the listening sea!
And the harp of the valley is hung
Betwixt the great breasts of the mountains,
And it is singing a free song, which catcheth
The raiment of the winds and rides the heavens.
And the laughing waves of the sea reach high,
Catching the tatters of the winds' garments,
Pulling the dancing echoes down, down!
Oh, within the pit of the sea
Is the music of creation. Lo, the voice
Of the first day is lain upon its floor-
And the soul of To-day is sinking like
A phantom within its water.
Last updated January 14, 2019