THE TORRENT’S VOICE
They are good, the placid waters in the shadows of the
wood;
And the umber shadows falling on the bayous, they are
good;
And the mocking-bird low swinging in the china-berry
tree
Sings a song of wondrous sweetness that is more than
good to me!
But at least once in a twelve-month comes a coaxing,
calling tone
From the heaven-kissing mountains and the vales that
were my own!
And the voices of the torrents that I stemmed when life
was young
Come to me, asleep or waking—sweeter songs were never
sung!
Oh, the flower-spangled prairies stretching far beneath
the sky!
They are sweeter than the anthems that the angels sing
on high!
And the long and sandy reaches, curving down beside
the bay,
Coax me, coax me just to linger where the little chil-
dren play!
But my unused eyes are aching from the flatness stretch-
ing far,
And are longing for the mountains, for each rough
scarped cliff and scar!
And my ears hear from the distance that beloved ferine
strain
of the boulder-tortured torrents battling down the glens
again!
Oh, the boulder-tortured torrents! Oh, the flying spume
and spray!
Oh, the house-big rocky fragments flung in some Titanic
fray,
And worn smooth through many ages by the torrent’s
rush and sweep!
Oh, the foam-white falls that thunder where the spleen-
did salmon leap!
They are good, the sleeping bayous! It is good, the
sandy shore!
It is good, the spangled prairie stretching westward
like a floor!
But through all my sleep or waking comes a voice for
me alone,
From the boulder-twisted torrents and the glens that
were my own!