The river winds around my head, Fish before my eyes. I lay my cheek upon its bed and Contemplate the skies of Morning's red, of Midday's blue, of Twilight's pink aglow, that Filters through the rushing stream Born of mountains long ago. Where does it go in such a rush from Rushing 'bout my mind? This Is the thought I can't escape; Its answer won't unwind its Liquid coils from the root where All such knowledge grows. And Like the river born of distant mounts, Its seed sown long ago.
whither comes the light alas, what matters the source while soon comes the night