The Song of the River

One of the positive benefits of blogs is the way they provide a connection for people who might otherwise never meet. While it is true that such meetings are virtual, it still allows for an exchange of ideas and thoughts that impart a certain measure of dialogue and contemplation.

In response to my post The River Flows..., one reader (Diana N.) emailed to me a beautiful poem written by William Randolph Hearst, "The Song of the River". She wrote she "found a brittled, yellowed clipping cut from the San Francisco Examiner and tucked it into a volume of Walt Whitman".

Since she was kind enough to share it with me, I thought I'd share it with the rest of you.

The Song of the River
The snow melts on the mountain
And the water runs down to the spring,
And the spring in a turbulent fountain,
With a song of youth to sing,
Runs down to the riotous river,
And the river flows on to the sea,
And the water again
Goes back in rain
To the hills where it used to be.
And I wonder if Life's deep mystery
Isn't much like the rain and the snow
Returning through all eternity
To places it used to know.
For life was born on the lofty heights
And flows in a laughing stream
To the River below
Whose onward flow
Ends in a peaceful dream.
And so at last,
When our life has passed
And the river has run its course,
It again goes back,
O'er the selfsame track
To the mountain which was its source.
So why prize life
Or why fear death,
Or dread what is to be?
The river ran its allotted span
Till it reached the silent sea.
Then the water harked back to the mountaintop
To begin its course once more.
So we shall run the course begun
Till we reach the silent shore,
Then revisit earth in a pure rebirth
From the heart of the virgin snow.
So don't ask why we live or die,
Or whither, or when we go,
Or wonder about the mysteries
That only God may know.