Even here we have driven the river underground.
Not because we didn’t admire its icy clarity,
Like glass, that scarcely bent the light of the sun;
Or because we didn’t want to refresh ourselves
At its bubbling fountain,
Or bathe in it, where it purled over the stones
Singing to itself its endless song;
Not because it didn’t water the plain
And carry off our refuse, washing away
The traces of our picnic on the planet;
I have seen it race like a black torrent
Down the steep channel of the street.
I have heard it roaring under the rain,
And searched for it through the dry days, hoping
For a token to show it would return.
But now it is buried under pavingstones
Deep in the rocks from which it sprang.
In the darkness it hisses and mutters, feeling its way
Like a blind man on an unfamiliar street
Tapping his path between strangers.
The River
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