resting-place? What spectre hurried them to the leap? These
things, too, are my concern, the river says.

Life is very grim in London: it is not painted in the fair,
glowing colours of grass and sky and trees, and shining streams
that bring peace. It is drawn in hard black and white; but the
voice of its dark waters must be heard all the same.

* * * * *

I would not leave my rivers in the shadow. After all, this life is
only a prelude, a beginning: we pass on to where "the rivers and
streams make glad the city of God." But if we will not listen here
how shall we understand hereafter.



Spring



Hark how the merry daffodils,
Fling golden music to the hills!
And how the hills send echoing down,
Through wind-swept turf and moorland brown,
The murmurs of a thousand rills
That mock the song-birds' liquid trills!
The hedge released from Winter's frown
Shews jewelled branch and willow crown;
While all the earth with pleasure trills,