Dawn fires the surface into gold,
Gold-eyed the herons stilt and stalk.
At silver noon the waters hold
Wheelings of a mirrored hawk.
I’ve not seen water lie so still
As here. Perhaps an otter may
Disturb its peace, or white-cranes till
The green edge, wading tall-knee-deep.
In gusts of wind, a faint wood hum—
Plucked leaves and broken petals dance,
The wind departs, the wood is dumb,
And floating yellows gather brown.
To think up to a mile ago
This river bounded like a hound,
Convulsed and nearly wrecked our boat,
And lies here gentle as a pond !
A rich practical man I’m told
Demanded, why this idleness?
He got no answer and compelled
The river into harness.
Like frightened birds the minutes fled
Pursued by roaring steel and fire.
The river slaved and profits grew
To almost overtake desire.
Until, they say, one windy night,
In deepest vigils of the owl,
The river rose and foaming white
Descended like a murderer.
At dawn the waters shone restored
The wreckage stood like blasted rocks
Round which the burnished mirror showed
Artistry of a wild brown hawk.