THE river sings his ancient song
Upon his stony bed,
The pine and birch and maple throng
And join with waving head.

O follow, follow up the stream
And rest ye, loving eyes!
There where the mountains like a dream
Fold round the shadowy skies.

O eyes! 't is but the river's bed
And shivering birch ye see!
Look not to find her pretty head
Beside the gleaming tree.

The hermit-thrush, in hidden ways
Where all but song is dim,
Sings on and on, 'Symbolic days,'
And still repeats his hymn.

By night the river's plaint is long,
At noon tall pines complain,
Until I think to these belong
A knowledge of our pain.