Peter MacLaren MacDonald (1868–1960)

THE SILV’RY river runneth silently

Through em’rald meadow and bird-haunted lea;

Down, down it ever floweth,—

Or north or south wind bloweth,—

Down to the calling sea.

Though here and there its bed is deep and cool,

It ever riseth from each pleasant pool,

And onward, seaward goeth,—

Or east or west wind bloweth,—

On to the wooing sea.

Contrary winds war with the stream to-day,

And turn the trembling surface-flood away.

But well the old stream knoweth,

In spite of wind it goeth—

All to the waiting sea.