Straight River

A river has no source at all.
Go trace it as you will,
Up river, stream, and streamlet,
Over swamp and hill.

It leads at last to some small lake
Where forest warbler sings,
Fed in its turn by freshets,
By secret brooks and springs,

Brooks unknown, forgotten,
Nor ever named by man,
With no existence there at all,
But for a timely rain.

So birth is unremembered,
A moment out of mind,
Lost 'twixt some and nothing,
Like droughted freshet...sand.

But oh, how death is different,
And bigger far than these,
That start from naught, like rivers,
And disappear in seas.