Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Mad River

TRAVELLER Why dost thou wildly rush and roar,        &nbsp Mad River, O Mad River? Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er        &nbsp This rocky shelf forever? What secret trouble stirs thy breast?        &nbsp Why all this fret and flurry? Dost thou not know that what is best In this too restless world is rest        &nbsp From over-work and worry? THE RIVER What wouldst thou in these mountains seek,        &nbsp O stranger from the city? Is it perhaps some foolish freak Of thine, to put the words I speak        &nbsp Into a plaintive ditty? TRAVELLER Yes; I would learn of thee thy song,        &nbsp With all its flowing number; And in a voice as fresh and strong As thine is, sing it all day long,        &nbsp And hear it in my slumbers. THE RIVER A brooklet nameless and unknown        &nbsp Was I at first, resembling A little child, that all alone Comes venturing down the stairs of stone,        &nbsp Irresolute and trembling. Later, by wayward fancies led,        &nbsp For the wide world I panted; Out of the forest dark and dread Across the open fields I fled,        &nbsp Like one pursued and haunted. I tossed my arms, I sang aloud,        &nbsp My voice exultant blending With thunder from the passing cloud, The wind, the forest bent and bowed,        &nbsp The rush of rain descending. I heard the distant ocean call,        &nbsp Imploring and entreating; Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall I plunged, and the loud waterfall        &nbsp Made answer to the greeting. And now, beset with many ills,        &nbsp A toilsome life I follow; Compelled to carry from the hills These logs to the impatient mills        &nbsp Below there in the hollow. Yet something ever cheers and charms        &nbsp The rudeness of my labors; Daily I water with these arms The cattle of a hundred farms,        &nbsp And have the birds for neighbors. Men call me Mad, and well they may,        &nbsp When, full of rage and trouble, I burst my banks of sand and clay, And sweep their wooden bridge away,        &nbsp Like withered reeds or stubble. Now go and write thy little rhyme,        &nbsp As of thine own creating. Thou seest the day is past its prime; I can no longer waste my time;        &nbsp The mills are tired of waiting.