Poems (Howard)/An Underground Stream
An Underground Stream.
What hand, in ages long ago, O subterranean river, Restricted thus thy overflow, And fixed thy bounds forever?
Why hidest thou in solitude? Has some dark deed of slaughter, Outcome of rash, despairing mood, Stained thy pellucid water?
Within thy gloomy chiseled walls Thy current roars and hisses With maddening swiftness, till it falls In deep and dark abysses.
No painted ship has ever crossed The channel where thou flowest—No summer's sun, nor winter's frost Nor autumn fair thou knowest!
No dropping flower-petals sweet Thy bosom ever freighted—Thy rapid flow no truant feet Have idly penetrated!
Thy coolness never slaked the thirst Of deer, pursued and panting,—Returning traveler ne'er rehearsed A tale of thee enchanting!
No memory to thee recurs Of merry sons and daughters—Of gay picnicking revelers Encamped beside thy waters!
Nor time nor season shalt thou know In thy dark habitation, As age on age shall come and go, And nation follow nation.
The centuries have riveted Thy rock-ribbed walls around thee, And to thy adamantine bed Eternity hath bound thee.