  decorative FROM whence the brook? From where the waters gather In mountains' deep recesses, stone-black lakes And dripping crevices. It ripples forth Into the shining day with scarce a voice, And with no strength at all, till mountain showers And winter's snow and spring storms pour their flood Into the dancing brook, that foams and starts And rushes headlong down the steeps and throws Into the Unknown all its youth and strength, And thunders into hell, to rise again To kiss the flowers' feet and overflow The meadows; thence, o'erbridged and caught and fastened To wheels, to grind and grind with irksome noise, To lose all liberty, all winsome frolic, And work till doomsday. On and on the stream Goes widening into calm and mighty strength, A hero of a stream, that bears the ships Like toys, and carries legions. Wider still He grows, and stronger, as he drags the waters Of hundred rivers with him to the sea. At last his course is sluggish, tired, slow, A living death, till, blended with the sea, A rising tide will carry him away Into oblivion. Such is life! A stream Through unknown land and never-ending work Unto Eternity's great, unknown sea. You cannot rise above the height you come from, You only widen and expand—but downwards,— Your strength is gone, your impetus is quenched. And then the world will call you great and grand, And make a fortune out of all those waters: Your tears, your blood, your work, and what you spent; The strength of all your aims and all your falls! |
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