And hearkening unto them,

Once more a tiny baby,

A wee brown fist I dabble

In the foaming cool,

Frothing round my wrist,

Spurting up my arm,

Spraying my warm face;

And then again I chuckle,

As I see an empty gourd,

Fallen in the swirling waters,

Bobbing on the tawny eddies,

Swiftly out of sight.

And yet most clearly to remembrance comes

That far-off night, in early Spring,

When, loud with melted snow from Northern peaks,

The torrent roared and fretted;

While, couched within the cavern,

The clamour kept me wakeful;

And, even when I slept,

Tumbled, tumultuous, through my dreams,

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