We Glided
Past The Mouth Of The Nashua, And Not Long After, Of Salmon
Brook, Without More Pause Than The Wind.
Salmon Brook,
Penichook,
Ye sweet waters of my brain,
When shall I look,
Or cast the hook,
In your waves again?
Silver eels,
Wooden creels,
These the baits that still allure,
And dragon-fly
That floated by,
May they still endure?
The shadows chased one another swiftly over wood and meadow, and
their alternation harmonized with our mood. We could distinguish
the clouds which cast each one, though never so high in the
heavens. When a shadow flits across the landscape of the soul,
where is the substance? Probably, if we were wise enough, we
should see to what virtue we are indebted for any happier moment
we enjoy. No doubt we have earned it at some time; for the gifts
of Heaven are never quite gratuitous. The constant abrasion and
decay of our lives makes the soil of our future growth. The wood
which we now mature, when it becomes virgin mould, determines the
character of our second growth, whether that be oaks or pines.
Every man casts a shadow; not his body only, but his imperfectly
mingled spirit. This is his grief. Let him turn which way he
will, it falls opposite to the sun; short at noon, long at eve.
Did you never see it? - But, referred to the sun, it is widest at
its base, which is no greater than his own opacity. The divine
light is diffused almost entirely around us, and by means of the
refraction of light, or else by a certain self-luminousness, or,
as some will have it, transparency, if we preserve ourselves
untarnished, we are able to enlighten our shaded side.
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