If you should, in some frantic grief, revile
The hand of fate, and at the Godhead scream,
Not understanding the purport of death,
Finding nought in life at which to smile,
And that we move as creatures of a dream
That vanish with a last expiring breath
And have no need of further domicile –
Let your gaze rest upon this winding stream
That from the sea unto its native heath
Ever doth change, yet ever keeps its style:
And though its water swiftly flows to doom
It ever is renewed by constant springs;
And urged by unseen powers it blithely sings.
Loud in the sun, more loudly in the gloom.
Mona’s Herald 10.4.62