The Water Ouzel
Little brown surf-bather of the mountains!
Spirit of foam, lover of cataracts, shaking your wings in falling waters!
Have you no fear of the roar and rush when Nevada plunges — Nevada, the shapely dancer, feeling her way with slim white fingers?
How dare you dash at Yosemite the mighty — Tall, white limbed Yosemite, leaping down, down over the cliff?
Is it not enough to lean on the blue air of mountains?
Is it not enough to rest with your mate at timberline, in bushes that hug the rocks?
Must you fly through mad waters where the heaped-up granite breaks them?
Must you batter your wings in the torrent?
Must you plunge for life and death through the foam?

Harriet Monroe
Другие работы автора
A Letter To One Far Away
Dear Wanderer— The sky is gray, With flecks of blue The clouds rush over A bird is singing Far away, And butterflies Taste of the clover
On The Train
I HE lady in front of me in the car, With little red coils close over her ears, Is talking with her friend;
The Childless Woman
O Mother of that heap of clay, so passive on your breast, Now do you stare at death, woman, who yesterday were blest Now do you long to fare afar, and guide him on the Where he must wander all alone, his little feet astray
The Wonder Of It
How wild, how witch-like weird that life should be That the insensate rock dared dream of me, And take to bursting out and burgeoning— Oh, long ago—yo ho — And wearing green