A Shallow Stream.

There is a stream to northward, thinly spread Over a shelving, many-fissured shale, That brawls and blusters in its shallow bed, And ends its course inglorious in a swale. Its babble stirs the laughter of the hills; The rooted mountains mock its fume and fret; And all the summer long the idle mills Wait wearily with water-wheel unwet. Let us not waste our lives in froth and foam And unavailing vanity of noise; "Still waters deepest run"—the ancient gnome Pricks well our sham, conceited bubble-toys; Who serve best here in God's great halidome Have volume, depth, serenity and poise.