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Come away, away with me,
My little spring, scared of grass;
Trickle from your hillside cradle,
Drop by drop, and down the moss,
Into the soil's circumstance.
Be not afraid of all the rocks and roots
And bigger things imposing on the way—
You have a friend in gravity.
The world is waiting for the hour,
My river soon to be.
Come this way, this way, with me,
My playful stream without a vision;
Cease your tangle with the turning wood,
And its demise of aimless gyre—
To wander isn't your conclusion.
From the view above the clouds,
There is no curvature in destiny;
The world is waiting for the hour—
You must get on, get on, get on,
My river soon to be.
Slow yourself, and stay with me,
My rapid, boiling with punishment;
The nature in your way today—
What swims, what sings, what breaths,
The faithful green—
Depends upon your nourishment;
It isn't fair, or wise, to run with power
When your steps lack magnanimity.
The world is waiting for the hour—
You must be calm, be calm, be calm,
My river soon to be.
Come away, away my river,
Or shall I say, with grace, Your Majesty;
It's time to meet your silty denouement,
The altar of the hour,
And evanesce into the nameless sea.
The virtue of the Sun is that he sets;
He knows you cannot trust the King
Who never leaves the tower.
Abdicate! The world awaits the hour,
Your return, my little spring.