Where the Gushing Waters Ran

In a meadow, deep and green, There was a river, That rambled north, beyond the mountains, Where the hoary peaks are seen. In that valley, lived a man, So old, and aged, Who had lived north, beyond the mountains, Where the gushing waters ran. From the man, the children heard Such wondrous tales Of life beyond their greening meadow— How they hung on every word! Then they longed for mountain air, So bracing, breezy. The meadow shadowed and grew smaller As they hungered to be there. But the man, with cautious eyes, Descried their yearning For dazzling life beyond the mountains, Where the stars ignite the sky In the morning and the night, Their color flinging. No wonder, then, the meadow faded With the thought of endless light. “Caution, children,” said the man, “And bide my teaching. That territory only opens To a soul that running, ran Only backwards. Running south, Will you find passage. Then through the cave the journey closes, You must find its hidden mouth.” “How absurd!” the children scorned, “To cross the world, When we can see the mountains face us! North it is, and only north.” Said the sage, with brimming eyes, “I beg you, listen! You cannot find another passage. South you all, or all you die!” But the children, in their lust, Would cross a desert— A desert, treacherous and lonely. “Once past this, the mountains must Open somewhere,” they had thought, “The old man—though he Must understand much of the world— Of these mountains, he knows not.” Packing weeks of things to eat To last their journey, They left their homes, and northward facing, Journeyed through the scorching heat. After painful, endless toil, They reached the mountains. They only needed now a passage Through the rigid, blackened soil. Apprehensive at the thought, The children keenly Surveyed the rock for miles around when In their fear, they chose a spot, There to dig and make a route To reach the world. They madly dug with makeshift shovels Till their food supplies gave out. Frenetically, each weakened child Contested vainly For passage to their blissful world. Threat of death had run them wild. Isolated in the north Like stagnant water, The children balked and—wholly hopeless— Yielded to intense remorse. Yet, no tears would tear the wall Of rock now standing Between themselves and seventh heaven. One by one began to fall— Terror at the mountainside! They famished slowly; Beneath the lofty peaks, they shriveled, Till at last they all had died. In the meadow, deep and green, There was a river, That rambled north, beyond the mountains, Where the hoary peaks are seen. In that valley, there lived one Who died. And dying, Was swept behind the meadow, southward, To where the gushing waters run.