Читать книгу Eighth Reader - Baldwin James - Страница 13

A river went singing a-down to the sea,

A-singing – low – singing —

And the dim rippling river said softly to me,

"I'm bringing, a-bringing —

While floating along —

A beautiful song

To the shores that are white where the waves are so weary,

To the beach that is burdened with wrecks that are dreary.

"A song sweet and calm

As the peacefullest psalm;

And the shore that was sad

Will be grateful and glad,

And the weariest wave from its dreariest dream

Will wake to the sound of the song of the stream;

And the tempests shall cease

And there shall be peace."

From the fairest of fountains

And farthest of mountains,

From the stillness of snow

Came the stream in its flow.

Down the slopes where the rocks are gray,

Through the vales where the flowers are fair —

Where the sunlight flashed – where the shadows lay

Like stories that cloud a face of care,

The river ran on – and on – and on,

Day and night, and night and day.

Going and going, and never gone,

Longing to flow to the "far away."

Staying and staying, and never still, —

Going and staying, as if one will

Said, "Beautiful river, go to the sea,"

And another will whispered, "Stay with me" —

And the river made answer, soft and low,

"I go and stay – I stay and go."

"But what is the song?" I said at last

To the passing river that never passed;

And a white, white wave whispered, "List to me,

I'm a note in the song for the beautiful sea,

A song whose grand accents no earth din may sever,

And the river flows on in the same mystic key

That blends in one chord the 'forever and never.'"