And waters running still!

But I dare not move nor follow,
For out of the quivering heat
Another vision arises
And darkens at my feet--

White faces worn with the fever
That crouches evermore
In the court and alley, and seizes
The poor man at his door,

Float up in my dream and call me,
And cry, If Christ were here
He had not left us to perish
In the fever-heat of the year!

God knows how I yearn for the mountains
And the river that runs between!
Ah, well, I can wait--and the pastures
Of heaven are always green.


No one will question the nobility of sentiment in these simple lines,
and they are the genuine expression of the man. In his case, however
slight may be his claim to be called a poet, that hardest test of the
poet is fulfilled:--


The gods exact for song