Water

Life-blood of the mighty earth! 
Flowing from creation's birth; 
Throbbing, infinite and free, 
In the heart-beat of the sea; 
Pulsing down each river-vein 
Of the green enameled plain: 
Stealing up from deep repose 
Through the crimson-bosomed rose; 
Glorious thou, in all thy forms! 
Whether whirl'd in midnight storms,
Or by wavelets rock'd to rest 
On the snow-white lily's breast.

On thy pearly curtain fold, 
Fringed with amaranth and gold, 
Sunset, as her coursers linger, 
Writes her tale with rosy finger; 
And a blush is on thy mist. 
As its brow is warmly kiss'd 
By the opening lips of morning, 
In the fresh love of its dawning;
Midnight saw its waveless deep 
Like an ocean stretched in sleep, 
With the dark-green trees and highlands 
Rising o'er its breast like islands.

Bride of Light! O, Protean water, 
Lo ! the rainbow is thy daughter, 
Clasping thee in radiant arms, 
Even in thy hour of storms; 
And in many glittering hues 
See! the million-orbéd dews, 
Sisters of the glorious arch, 
Dance along thy showery march; 
And the grass gives odors sweet, 
Bathing all their "twinkling feet,” 
As it bends along their track, 
Till the light winds call them back.

Every old and gnarled trunk 
In whose roots thy stream is drunk, 
Feels along its breast a thrill, 
Creeping unperceived and still, 
As the sun with magic art 
Melts into its frozen heart; 
Till its warm and hueless blood, 
Crowding into leaf and bud, 
Clothes in green each giant limb, 
Gorgeous as the robes that swim
Round the knights of Fairy-land; 
By the breath of roses fan'd.

O, thy coming down is sweet, 
When, oppress'd by summer's heat, 
Bowing, every herb and flower 
Prays thee for the pleasant shower; 
See! each thirsting plant holds up 
For thy gift its little cup; 
While on every grassy spear, 
Hangs in light a grateful tear, 
Orbs of beauty bathed in gold 
On thy sun-lit way are rolled, 
Each fair orb a mimic world 
Through the sky in splendor hurled.

Dripping down the mossy well 
Where the cold frog loves to dwell; 
Bubbling in thy granite urn 
Where the day-beams never burn; 
Tinkling in the pebbly run, 
Grass-defended from the sun, 
Rustling in the little fall, 
Thou art sweetly musical; 
Never bird or voice divine Hath a gladder tone than thine, 
Man hath richer earth-gift never — 
Ne'er more spurned was gift or Giver.