Classic Poem

The river is stirring in his sleep this night,
Full fed and fighting mad from the lusty rains;
The young spring gods are quick within his veins,
And he's talking, laughing to himself this night.

Listen, the last and holiest eve of flood
Is passing, and to-night the river dreams
Tales from the upland lairs of his warrior streams,
How they came flashing down to join his flood.

Yet he has something on his mind to-night—
A-down his dreams a wayward eddy swirls,
And he laughs outright, a clean laugh like a girl's,
And sighs like a child, for he's full of care to-night.

I think his mighty heart is near to bursting.
Hark to him turning and whispering in his sleep;
Laughter is there, but underneath, the deep
Heart of him swells with sorrow near to bursting.

Hear the great slumber song of all the rivers,
The lay of mountain and meadow, rising, breaking,
The World's High Welcome to the Spring's awaking,
But wild with sorrow, the rhyming of all the rivers.

For through his murmurous laughter runs a tale
Of sad eyed heroes and mothers and of death,
And this new Spring with incense in her breath
Of unsung requiem—so runs the tale.