I step into a
boat and pull up stream until the exertion has refreshed me; and
then I make fast to the old alder-stump where last year the reed-
piper nested, and lie back in the stern and think.
The water laps against the keel as the boat rocks gently in the
current; the river flows past, strong and quiet. There are side
eddies, of course, and little disturbing whirlpools near the big
stones, but they are all gathered into the broad sweep of the
stream, carried down to the great catholic sea. And while I listen
to the murmur of the water and watch its quiet strength the day's
wrinkles are smoothed out of my face; and at last the river bears
me homeward rested and at peace.
There are long stretches of time for me when I must remain apart
from the world of work, often unwilling, sometimes with a very sore
heart. Then I turn my steps towards my friend and wander along the
banks, a solitary not alone. In the quiet evening light I watch
the stream 'never hasting, never resting': the grass that grows
beside it is always green, the flowers are fresh; it makes long
embracing curves--I could cross from point to point in a minute,
but to follow takes five. The ways of the water are ways of
healing; I have a companion who makes no mistakes, touches none of
my tender spots.
Presently I reach the silent pool, where the stream takes a wide
sweep. Here the fair white water-lilies lie on their broad green
leaves and wait for their lover the moon; for then they open their
silvery leaves and bloom in the soft light fairer far than beneath
the hot rays of the sun.
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