He set forth from the mountains - a young spring
Bright in the sunshine, headlong, roaring loud;
From high he comes back, changed into a cloud,
Pouring warm rain on every living thing.
He gives the gnarled, dried root its sap to drink,
Brings clear the trot of deer o'er ditch and knoll;
Yet when he washes clean the grassy brink,
Grey, turbid waves roll down into his soul.
He's not all for himself: I and the flower
And fir-trees claim him, and the ripe vine bower,
And yet he is so much himself, and One!
He never shows what sparks in him aspire
Save when, at rest and bathing in the sun,
Unwittingly, his rainbows come on fire.
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