Classic Poem

It winds along the face of a cliff
— This path which I long to explore,
And over it dashes a waterfall,
— And the air is full of the roar
And the thunderous voice of waters which sweep
In a silver torrent over some steep.

It clears the path with a mighty bound
— And tumbles below and away,
And the trees and the bushes which grow in the rocks
— Are wet with its jewelled spray;
The air is misty and heavy with sound,
And small, wet wildflowers star the ground.

Oh! The dampness is very good to smell,
— And the path is soft to tread,
And beyond the fall it winds up and on,
— While little streamlets thread
Their own meandering way down the hill
Each singing its own little song, until

I forget that 'tis only a pictured path,
— And I hear the water and wind,
And look through the mist, and strain my eyes
— To see what there is behind;
For it must lead to a happy land,
This little path by a waterfall spanned.