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In the White Mountains
TRAVELLER. WHY dost thou wildly rush and roar, | |
| Mad River, O Mad River? | |
| Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour | |
| Thy hurrying, headlong waters o’er | |
| This rocky shelf forever? | 5 |
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| What secret trouble stirs thy breast? | |
| Why all this fret and flurry? | |
| Dost thou not know that what is best | |
| In this too restless world is rest | |
| From over-work and worry? | 10 |
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THE RIVER. What wouldst thou in these mountains seek, | |
| O stranger from the city? | |
| Is it perhaps some foolish freak | |
| Of thine, to put the words I speak | |
| Into a plaintive ditty? | 15 |
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TRAVELLER. Yes; I would learn of thee thy song, | |
| With all its flowing numbers, | |
| And in a voice as fresh and strong | |
| As thine is, sing it all day long, | |
| And hear it in my slumbers. | 20 |
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THE RIVER. A brooklet nameless and unknown | |
| Was I at first, resembling | |
| A little child, that all alone | |
| Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, | |
| Irresolute and trembling. | 25 |
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| Later, by wayward fancies led, | |
| For the wide world I panted; | |
| Out of the forest, dark and dread, | |
| Across the open fields I fled, | |
| Like one pursued and haunted. | 30 |
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| I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, | |
| My voice exultant blending | |
| With thunder from the passing cloud, | |
| The wind, the forest bent and bowed, | |
| The rush of rain descending. | 35 |
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| I heard the distant ocean call, | |
| Imploring and entreating; | |
| Drawn onward, o’er this rocky wall | |
| I plunged, and the loud waterfall | |
| Made answer to the greeting. | 40 |
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| And now, beset with many ills, | |
| A toilsome life I follow; | |
| Compelled to carry from the hills | |
| These logs to the impatient mills | |
| Below there in the hollow. | 45 |
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| Yet something ever cheers and charms | |
| The rudeness of my labors; | |
| Daily I water with these arms | |
| The cattle of a hundred farms, | |
| And have the birds for neighbors. | 50 |
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| Men call me Mad, and well they may, | |
| When, full of rage and trouble, | |
| I burst my banks of sand and clay, | |
| And sweep their wooden bridge away, | |
| Like withered reeds or stubble. | 55 |
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| Now go and write thy little rhyme, | |
| As of thine own creating. | |
| Thou seest the day is past its prime; | |
| I can no longer waste my time; | |
| The mills are tired of waiting. | 60 |
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