I COME from the depths of the mountain, The dark, hidden head of the fountain, I spring from a nook in the ledges, And bathe the gray granite's rough edges, I rush over wide mossy masses To quench the hot thirst of the grasses. I bathe the cleft hoofs of the cattle, As o'er the rude ford-stones I rattle. I glide through the glens deep in shadow; I flow in the sun-bathed meadow, And seek, with a shake and a quiver, The still steady flow of the river, Then on to the wild rhythmic motion Of my mother, the sky-tinted ocean. |