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.