Books in the Running Brooks

"It is enough, enough," one said,
At play among the flowers:
"I spy a rose upon the thorn,

A rainbow in the showers;
I hear a merry chime of bells
Ring out the passing hours."

Soft springs the fountain
From the daisied ground,
Softly falling on the moss
Without a sound.

"It is enough," she said, and fixed
Calm eyes upon the sky:
"I watch a flitting tender cloud

Just like a dove go by;
A lark is rising from the grass,
A wren is building nigh."
Softly the fountain

Threads its silver way,
Screened by the scented bloom
Of whitest May.

"Enough? " she whispered to herself,
As doubting: " Is it so?
Enough to wear the roses fair,

O sweetest flowers that blow?
Oh yes, it surely is enough --
My happy home below I "
A shadow stretcheth

From the hither shore:
The waters darken
More and more and more,

"It is enough," she says: but with
A listless weary moan:
"Enough," if mixing with her friends:

"Enough," if left alone:
But to herself: " Not yet enough
This suffering, to atone?"

The cold black waters
Seem to stagnate there,
'ithout a single wave

Or breath of air.
And now she says: " It is enough,"
Half languid and half stirred:
"Enough," to silence and to sound,

Thorn, blossom, soaring bird:
"Enough," she says; but with a lack
Of something in the word.
Defiled and turbid

See the waters pass.
Half light, half shadow.
Struggling through the grass.
Ah will it ever dawn, that day

When, calm for good or ill.
Her heart shall say: " It is enough.
For Thou art with me still;
It is enough, O Lord my God,

Thine only blessed Will "?
Then shall the fountain sing
And flow to rest.
Clear as the sun-track

To the purple West.