From further in the hills there came A river to our kitchen door To be the water of the house And keep a snow-white kitchen floor. The fall we made the river take To catch the water in a dish (It wasn't deep enough to dip) Was good for us, but not for fish. For when the trout came up in spring And found a plunging wall to pass, It meant, unless they met it right, They glanced and landed in the grass. I recollect one fingerling That came ashore to dance it out; And if he didn't like the death, He'd better not have been a trout. I found him faded in the heat. But there was one I found in time And put back in the water where He wouldn't have the fall to climb. |