The love of the wild river runs in the blood;
Untamable, surging, it sings in our sleep
A sweet song of cataracts known but unseen.
The riverblood wakes with a mad sudden movement
Whenever a torrent or ripple appears;
It feels no restraint and it knows no improvement;
The siren’s-call plunges are all that it hears.
My brother has put himself down by the river
To greet every morning its blood-firing urge;
While I, much more timid, can only deliver
A pale-seeming poem, and dream of the surge.
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