Poems (Craik)/An Old Idea
AN OLD IDEA.
TREAM of my life, dull, placid river, flow! I have no fear of the ingulfing seas: Neither I look before me nor behind, But, lying mute with wave-dipped hand, float on. It was not always so. My brethren, see This oar-stained, trembling palm. It keeps the sign Of youth's mad wrestling with the waves that drift Immutably, eternally along. I would have had them flow through fields and flowers, Giving and taking freshness, perfume, joy; It winds through—here. Be silent, O my soul!—The finger of God's wisdom drew its line.
So I lean back and look up to the stars, And count the ripples circling to the shore, And watch the solemn river rolling on Until it widen to the open seas.