John Boyle O'Reilly

Under the River

CLEAR and bright, from the snowy height,
The joyous stream to the plain descended:
Rich sands of gold were washed and rolled
To the turbid marsh where its pure life ended.
 
From stainless snow to the moor below
The heart like the brook has a waning mission
The buried dream in life’s sluggish stream
Is the golden sand of our young ambition.
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