Poems (White)/Little Stream
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LITTLE STREAM
Flow, little stream, flow on,
Where other streams have gone;
Chase the brook, whip the creek,
Ripple on many a week.
Dash o'er cliff, creep through vale,
Rush o'er rocks with loud wail,
Wash the face clean of that mighty height,
Shower baths give those down beyond sight.
Trickle down slowly from unseen lift,
Spreading your whiteness like flour we sift,
Always downward you ever will go,
Down to the very lowest of low.
First going slowly, then very swift,
Carrying fragments of logs and drift,
Giving a helping hand to the poor,
Supplying warmth when winter is sore,
Cleansing, refreshing all as you go,—
Your sweet mission to lowest of low.
At last to the great old ocean's heart,
You're clasped to his breast: your reward sought.
Where other streams have gone;
Chase the brook, whip the creek,
Ripple on many a week.
Dash o'er cliff, creep through vale,
Rush o'er rocks with loud wail,
Wash the face clean of that mighty height,
Shower baths give those down beyond sight.
Trickle down slowly from unseen lift,
Spreading your whiteness like flour we sift,
Always downward you ever will go,
Down to the very lowest of low.
First going slowly, then very swift,
Carrying fragments of logs and drift,
Giving a helping hand to the poor,
Supplying warmth when winter is sore,
Cleansing, refreshing all as you go,—
Your sweet mission to lowest of low.
At last to the great old ocean's heart,
You're clasped to his breast: your reward sought.