In Glen Roy


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