THE river is a moody human thing:
It laughs whene'er the sky is sunny-blue,
Taking therefrom a deeper, richer hue;
And naught it doth all day but laugh and sing,
And toss its diamonds like a wayward king.
But if the day be dark and sad, then too
The river mourns the hours of sadness through,
And seems dissolved in tears of murmuring.
It is a sympathetic, changeful soul, -
A creature touched by every passing breath.
For future sunshine it has little faith, -
Remembers not the past. Now is its whole.
Though knowing not, it rushes to its goal, -
Its goal, the mighty ocean's living death.