A SHALLOW STREAM.

There is a stream to northward, thinly spread

Over a shelving, many-fissured shale,

That brawls and blusters in its shallow bed,

And ends its course inglorious in a swale.

Its babble stirs the laughter of the hills;

The rooted mountains mock its fume and fret;

And all the summer long the idle mills

Wait wearily with water-wheel unwet.

Let us not waste our lives in froth and foam

And unavailing vanity of noise;

“Still waters deepest run” — the ancient gnome

Pricks well our sham, conceited bubble-toys;

Who serve best here in God's great halidome

Have volume, depth, serenity and poise.