To a Stagnant Pond

O pond of the meadow, So low and so black, Say why are you lying thus, Flat on your back!

Week in and week out, And from night until morn, You have been doing nothing Since first you were born.

Now if you are not dead But only just dumb, Get up, sir, and take off Your jacket of scum!

No sweet little flower To your dull bosom bends; You have only the hop-toad And snake for your friends!

No bird to your dark wave Comes twittering down, And the grass all about you Is withered and brown.

It is time, and high time, You were setting to work, You sordid, unlovable, Beggarly shirk!

Just think, with your brow Into black wrinkles curled, You never have gladdened A heart in the world!

And if you would henceforth Escape from abuse, Get up, I beseech you, And be of some use!

Close at hand, only hid by The sheep-grazing hill, Your gad-about sister Is turning a mill.

Her path is so pleasant, Her smile is so bright, The flocks stay about her All day and all night.

The wild mint leans lowly, Her kiss is so sweet, And the stones that she treads on Sing under her feet.

With foam-flowers always Her wet locks are crowned, And her bushes with berries Blush all the year round.

She counts not the mill-work As doing her wrong, But makes the wheel partner, And dances along.

And so, with her life And her labor content, She is queen of the meadow By common consent.

Now here is a secret, Receive it in faith,— True life is in action, Stagnation is death.

And this you may learn From your sister, the brook, As though it were written And bound in a book.

You die in your torpor, She rests in her strife, Because she is keeping The law of her life.

And would you be happy As she at her mill, Throw off your scum jacket, And work with a will.