Classic Poem

Down along the mountains, down to Damascus,
The little Nahr Baradâ waters all the wide wilderness,
Flowing like a holy thing into thirsty gardens,
Where the fair pomegranate, bride among the trees,
Blushes with delight, while the camel bells tinkle
On trails cooled from far above by Hermon's snowy breeze.

Down into the valley, on the same pilgrimage
It made when Thebes and Babylon were marts of living men,
It flows to the city's rim that burgeons still because of it;
Nor cares whether Christian bell or minaret be heard;
But only whether life comes, to men and beasts and blossoms,
That listen to the wonder of its ever-cooling word.