THE AERATION OF NEW YORK'S WATER SUPPLY HAS ADDED AN EXQUISITE AND ASTONISHING FEATURE OF BEAUTY TO THE LOWER CATSKILLS. HENCEFORTH what dream can e'er efface Ashokan's pure and irised throng? Not Dryads, nor the Dryads' grace, Not Naiads, nor the Naiads' song. Like ghosts of cedars cool and tall -- They mount close-clustered, row on row -- As white as when the moonbeams fall Upon the newly fallen snow. Yet they are not a thing of night, But souls of nymphs that stand by day Poised for a fellowship of flight While with their robes the breezes play. They live in light -- not spirits dire That haunt the darkness -- not to harm, But like a massed angelic choir With song of benison and charm. Their beauty, to the verge of pain, Dwells in my memory. I glean A song above the heard refrain, An unseen spirit in the seen; For not of Death their waters speak But Life, these glad Ashokan towers: In heavenly ministry they seek The City's human weeds and flowers. Ah, could they flash their song and sight To house and hovel as they pass, How urban toil and care and blight Would quaff new beauty in the glass! |