BROWN trees, brown river, and a waning moon
Disputing with a dying day; the croon Of melancholy waters surging sheer Over the ramparts of a surcharged weir;
Flat, flooding meadows, half drowned willows, gleams
Of milky whiteness laid along the stream's Far bank (the newly sundered hearts of trees; Beauty cut down—youth, ecstasy that flees).
One voice in moon and daylight, tree and grass: " We perish and come to nought; we perish and pass."
Strange, strange how now the heart at heavy flood,
The wounded spirit and the bitter mood—
That sought relief in work, love, friendly cheer, And all was vanity—find healing here!
Here sorrow's overplus is written in sound Of falling, musical waters; some profound
Loveliness laps this desolate, drowning shore—
A spirit too proud, too noble to weep more . . .
Enough to breathe with moon, tree, daylight, grass : " We perish and come to nought; we perish and pass."
V. H. FRIEDLAENDER.