OF THE STREAM-DROPS
forest and field and mossy stone,
We come from the wooden hill,
and we go to the sea.
We labour, and sing sweet songs, but we never moan,
For our mother, the sea, is
calling us cheerily.
We have heard her calling us many and many a day
From the cool grey stones and the white sands far away.
The way is
long, and winding and slow is the track,
sharp rocks fret us, the eddies bring us delay,
But we sing sweet songs to our mother, and answer her
we answer our mother, sweetly repay.
Oh, we hear, we hear her singing wherever we roam,
Far, far away in the silence, calling us home.
mortal, your ears are dull, and you cannot hear:
we, we hear it, the breast of our mother abeat;
Low, far away, sweet and solemn
the hush of the night, under the noon-tide heat:
And we sing sweet songs to our mother, for so we shall
please her best,
Songs of beauty and peace, freedom and infinite rest.
sing, and sing, through the grass and the stones and
we never grow tired, though we journey ever and aye,
Dreaming, and dreaming, wherever
the long way leads,
far cool rocks and the rush of the wind and the spray.
Under the sun and the stars we murmur and dance and
And we dream and dream of our mother, the width of the