Excerpt from On the Des Moines
On the Des Moines
I Become A Fisherman
Everything comes at last to the river, -
The trees let down their roots into it,
And lift it to feed their branches;
The fishes make of it
Their habitation and their home;
The birds bathe in it,
And sing to it,
Both in the morning and in the evening;
The beasts drink of it,
And dream along its marge;
Men come down to it from the world,
They loiter beside its pools,
They find food
For the soul that is within them;
The hills themselves creep down into it
Through silent centuries, -
Ay, everything comes at last to the living river.
I come down to the river
To find my life;
I spread my lodge,
With the bluegrass for a carpet
And the scrub oaks for a canopy,
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