Who shall declare the joy of the running!
           Who shall tell of the pleasures of flight!
          Springing and spurning the tufts of wild heather,
           Sweeping, wide-winged, through the blue dome of light.
          Everything mortal has moments immortal,
           Swift and God-gifted, immeasurably bright.

          So with the stretch of the white road before me,
           Shining snowcrystals rainbowed by the sun,
          Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows,
           Strong with the strength of my horse as we run.
          Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight!
           Joy!  With the vigorous earth I am one.

          It winds along the face of a cliff
           This path which I long to explore,
          And over it dashes a waterfall,
           And the air is full of the roar
          And the thunderous voice of waters which sweep
          In a silver torrent over some steep.

          It clears the path with a mighty bound
           And tumbles below and away,
          And the trees and the bushes which grow in the rocks
           Are wet with its jewelled spray;
          The air is misty and heavy with sound,
          And small, wet wildflowers star the ground.

          Oh!  The dampness is very good to smell,
           And the path is soft to tread,
          And beyond the fall it winds up and on,
           While little streamlets thread
          Their own meandering way down the hill
          Each singing its own little song, until

          I forget that 't is only a pictured path,
           And I hear the water and wind,
          And look through the mist, and strain my eyes
           To see what there is behind;
          For it must lead to a happy land,
          This little path by a waterfall spanned.

          Oh!  To be a flower
           Nodding in the sun,
          Bending, then upspringing
           As the breezes run;
          Holding up
          A scent-brimmed cup,
           Full of summer's fragrance to the summer sun.

          Oh!  To be a butterfly
           Still, upon a flower,
          Winking with its painted wings,
           Happy in the hour.
          Blossoms hold
          Mines of gold
           Deep within the farthest heart of each chaliced flower.

          Oh!  To be a cloud
           Blowing through the blue,
          Shadowing the mountains,
           Rushing loudly through
          Valleys deep
          Where torrents keep
           Always their plunging thunder and their misty arch of blue.

          Oh!  To be a wave
           Splintering on the