Classic Poem

Mountain stream, clear and limpid, wandering down towards the valley, whispering songs among the rushes — oh, that I were as the stream! Mountain heather all in flower — longing fills me, at the sight, to stay upon the hills in the wind and the heather. Small birds of the high mountain that soar up in the healthy wind, flitting from one peak to the other — oh, that I were as the bird! Son of the mountain am I, far from home making my song; but my heart is in the mountain, with the heather and small birds.