TRAVELLER
Why dost thou wildly rush and roar,
       &nbsp Mad River, O Mad River?
Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour
Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er
       &nbsp This rocky shelf forever?

What secret trouble stirs thy breast?
       &nbsp Why all this fret and flurry?
Dost thou not know that what is best
In this too restless world is rest
       &nbsp From over-work and worry?

THE RIVER
What wouldst thou in these mountains seek,
       &nbsp O stranger from the city?
Is it perhaps some foolish freak
Of thine, to put the words I speak
       &nbsp Into a plaintive ditty?

TRAVELLER
Yes; I would learn of thee thy song,
       &nbsp With all its flowing number;
And in a voice as fresh and strong
As thine is, sing it all day long,
       &nbsp And hear it in my slumbers.
THE RIVER
A brooklet nameless and unknown
       &nbsp Was I at first, resembling
A little child, that all alone
Comes venturing down the stairs of stone,
       &nbsp Irresolute and trembling.

Later, by wayward fancies led,
       &nbsp For the wide world I panted;
Out of the forest dark and dread
Across the open fields I fled,
       &nbsp Like one pursued and haunted.

I tossed my arms, I sang aloud,
       &nbsp My voice exultant blending
With thunder from the passing cloud,
The wind, the forest bent and bowed,
       &nbsp The rush of rain descending.

I heard the distant ocean call,
       &nbsp Imploring and entreating;
Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall
I plunged, and the loud waterfall
       &nbsp Made answer to the greeting.

And now, beset with many ills,
       &nbsp A toilsome life I follow;
Compelled to carry from the hills
These logs to the impatient mills
       &nbsp Below there in the hollow.
Yet something ever cheers and charms
       &nbsp The rudeness of my labors;
Daily I water with these arms
The cattle of a hundred farms,
       &nbsp And have the birds for neighbors.

Men call me Mad, and well they may,
       &nbsp When, full of rage and trouble,
I burst my banks of sand and clay,
And sweep their wooden bridge away,
       &nbsp Like withered reeds or stubble.

Now go and write thy little rhyme,
       &nbsp As of thine own creating.
Thou seest the day is past its prime;
I can no longer waste my time;
       &nbsp The mills are tired of waiting.