Mountain Water

Mountain water is never still

With the stillness of other waters

That have not known the lunge

Of the beautiful wild things

Pressed hard by the fanged walls

Of gorges, nor taken the plunge,

With myriad silver-misted wings,

In waterfalls.

Even in moonlight its stillness

Is that of hammered silver.

The hammer, from forges that blasted

The pinnacles, tipped them with fires,

Has fallen here, and it rings

In rhythm that has outlasted

The wistful measures of ages' desires

And restless wings.

And even where waters widen,

The memory of those dark gorges

Through which they passed, with the throb

Of the infinite Heart, drives on.

And waters seem to be

A laughter . . . yes, and a sob

Of eagerness, till their spear of dawn

Jewels the sea.