By silent forest and field and mossy stone, <br />We come from the wooden hill, and we go to the sea. <br />We labour, and sing sweet songs, but we never moan, <br />For our mother, the sea, is calling us cheerily. <br />We have heard her calling us many and many a day <br />From the cool grey stones and the white sands far away. <br /> <br />The way is long, and winding and slow is the track, <br />The sharp rocks fret us, the eddies bring us delay, <br />But we sing sweet songs to our mother, and answer her back; <br />Gladly we answer our mother, sweetly repay. <br />Oh, we hear, we hear her singing wherever we roam, <br />Far, far away in the silence, calling us home. <br /> <br />Poor mortal, your ears are dull, and you cannot hear; <br />But we, we hear it, the breast of our mother abeat; <br />Low, far away, sweet and solemn and clear, <br />Under the hush of the night, under the noon-tide heat: <br />And we sing sweet songs to our mother, for so we shall please her best, <br />Songs of beauty and peace, freedom and infinite rest. <br /> <br />We sing, and sing, through the grass and the stones and the reeds, <br />And we never grow tired, though we journey ever and aye, <br />Dreaming, and dreaming, wherever the long way leads, <br />Of the far cool rocks and the rush of the wind and the spray. <br />Under the sun and the stars we murmur and dance and are free, <br />And we dream and dream of our mother, the width of the sheltering sea.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-of-the-stream-drops/
