Birds of Passage (Collection)/Songo River

Nowhere such a devious stream, Save in fancy or in dream, Winding slow through bush and brake Links together lake and lake.

Walled with woods or sandy shelf, Ever doubling on itself Flows the stream, so still and slow That it hardly seems to flow.

Never errant knight of old, Lost in woodland or on wold, Such a winding path pursued Through the sylvan solitude.

Never school-boy in his quest After hazel-nut or nest, Through the forest in and out Wandered loitering thus about.

In the mirror of its tide Tangled thickets on each side Hang inverted, and between Floating cloud or sky serene.

Swift or swallow on the wing Seems the only living thing, Or the loon, that laughs and flies Down to those reflected skies.

Silent stream! thy Indian name Unfamiliar is to fame; For thou hidest here alone, Well content to be unknown.

But thy tranquil waters teach Wisdom deep as human speech, Moving without haste or noise In unbroken equipoise.

Though thou turnest no busy mill, And art ever calm and still, Even thy silence seems to say To the traveller on his way:--

"Traveller, hurrying from the heat Of the city, stay thy feet! Rest awhile, nor longer waste Life with inconsiderate haste!

"Be not like a stream that brawls Loud with shallow waterfalls, But in quiet self-control Link together soul and soul"