THE CASCADE

From the mountain gray

It has made its way

To my garden green and cool,

And there, from the edge

Of a rocky ledge

Leaps down to a crystal pool.

With a plunging flash

It falls, to dash

That crystal into foam;

And then at a bound

Slips under ground

To the lake,— its final home.

In the morning light,

In the silent night,

When the moonlight gems the scene,

It laughs and sings,

And a light spray flings

O'er stately walls of green.

For in and out,

And round about,

Grow flowers, plants, and trees,

From the lowly moss

To the boughs that toss

Their leaves in the passing breeze.

On its outer zone

Of massive stone

Two marble statues stand,—

The silver sheen

Of the pool between,—

One form on either hand.

One of the pair

Is a woman fair,

With parted, smiling lips;

For her each hour

A honied flower,

And she the bee that sips.

The other, a faun,

From whom is gone

The power to frankly smile;

For whom each day,

As it drags away,

Makes life still less worth while.

The face of the one

Is like the sun,

With its warmth, and light, and cheer;

But the faun looks down

With ugly frown,

And his lips retain a sneer.

Youth and age,

Child and sage!

The former with life unknown;

The latter burnt

By lessons learnt,

With a heart now turned to stone.

Yet the torrent speeds,

And never heeds

The statues’ smiles or sneers;

They come and go,

But the water's flow

Has lasted a thousand years.