Classic Poem

Laughing and shouting its rocks among,
The brook threads the upland lea:
But, for all its song so loudly sung,
And the small uproar of its babbling tongue,
'Tis a shallow thing in its glee.

Solemn and still doth the river go,
As it winds through its vale of rest:
Calm is its mien and its tide is slow,
Smooth is its face and its voice is low —
Yet fleets may ride on its breast.

Oh! the river is great in its silent might,
As it rolleth eternally:
But, with all its calm, so still, so bright,
In a passionate longing day and night,
It stretches its hands to the sea.

The brook and the river are each alike;
And the one all men may know;
For its fretful current with noises rife,
And its grief and joy, and its petty strife,
Are seen in its shallow flow.

The other so peaceful seems,
So still; and we fancy a soul at rest:
But, little we know what strength of will,
What mighty pulses that throb and thrill,
Are hid in the silent breast.

A clear, cool eye, with a changeless glow,
The clasp of a steady palm,
May cover the tide that sweeps below,
In a strong and resistless undertow,
Yet we say, " how cool and calm! "