Page:Poems Bushnell.djvu/41

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In simple service thrives its heart;
 It waters flowerets shy,
It feels the spotted fishes dart,
 It mirrors bits of sky;

Till, slipping down by hillside farms,
 Its ministries enlarge,
And in the meadows circling arms
 It wins a broader marge.

White lilies anchor on its breast,
 A boat glides softly through,
And ever deeper grows its rest
 The more it has to do.

For in its tasks it knows no haste,
 Nor lets the music cease;
Too free to keep, too calm to waste,
 The largesse of its peace;

But bears it on to outstretched lands
 Where thirsty cities wait;
And then, at length, it understands
 The fulness of its fate.

Proud ships upon its bosom ride,
 It throbs with busy oars;
It grows more nobly satisfied,
 Between its widening shores;

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