FROM whence the brook? From where the waters gather

In mountains' deep recesses, stone-black lakes

And dripping crevices. It ripples forth

Into the shining day with scarce a voice,

And with no strength at all, till mountain showers

And winter's snow and spring storms pour their flood

Into the dancing brook, that foams and starts

And rushes headlong down the steeps and throws

Into the Unknown all its youth and strength,

And thunders into hell, to rise again

In sheets of whiteness into dreamy veils,

To kiss the flowers' feet and overflow

The meadows; thence, o'erbridged and caught and fastened

To wheels, to grind and grind with irksome noise,

To lose all liberty, all winsome frolic,

And work till doomsday. On and on the stream

Goes widening into calm and mighty strength,

A hero of a stream, that bears the ships

Like toys, and carries legions.

Wider still

He grows, and stronger, as he drags the waters

Of hundred rivers with him to the sea.

At last his course is sluggish, tired, slow,

A living death, till, blended with the sea,

A rising tide will carry him away

Into oblivion. Such is life! A stream

From unknown heights through storm and dangerous fall,

Through unknown land and never-ending work

Unto Eternity's great, unknown sea.

You cannot rise above the height you come from,

You only widen and expand—but downwards,—

Your strength is gone, your impetus is quenched.

And then the world will call you great and grand,

And make a fortune out of all those waters:

Your tears, your blood, your work, and what you spent;

The strength of all your aims and all your falls!