The Source
Water in hidden glens
From the secret heart of the mountains,
Where the red fox hath its dens
And the gods their crystal fountains;
Up runnel and leaping cataract,
Boulder and ledge, I climbed and tracked,
Till I came to the top of the world and the fen
That drinks up the clouds and cisterns the rain,
And down through the floors of the deep morass
The procreant woodland essences drain—
The thunder’s home, where the eagles scream
And the centaurs pass;
But, where it was born, I lost my stream.
’Twas in vain I said: ‘Tis here it springs,
Though no more it leaps and no more it sings;’
And I thought of a poet whose songs I knew
Of morning made and shining dew—
I remembered the mire of the marshes too.
