ALL heaven was blent in that morning; The shallop replied to your oar, And never an accent of warning From wave-lip or lip of the shore;
The ripples ran swift o'er the river, The river ran slow to the Fall, And birds with full song-throats a-quiver, Held silence in Sycamores tall;
The breath of the spring-time was sweetness, And sweet was the hush of our dream; One eddy in circling fleetness Waltzed over the face of the stream,
Entranced, like the morning, we floated Still farther and farther from shore, The current's mad swiftness unnoted— Unnoted the Cataract's roar.
Look! the waters are raging and seething; Black rocks and white breakers appall! The spray like a cold, ghostly breathing Enfolds us and points to the Fall.
"Turn back to the fair, Summer weather; Awake to this horror!" I cried; Too late: We went over together,— Together, awaking, we died.
And now when the evenings are moonless And nature in darkness controls; When the wind-harp is idle and toneless We fly forth in search of our souls:
Our souls that were lost on that morning, When heaven leaned earthward so near, That we heard not the Cataract's warning, And saw not its omens of fear.
