'Tis the boom of the fall with a heavy pour,
Solemn and slow as a thunder cloud,
Majestic as the vast ocean's roar,
Though the green trees round its singing crowd;
And the light is as green as the emerald grass,
Or the wide leaved plants in the wet morass.

It sounds over all, and the rushing storm
Cannot wrinkle its temples, or wave its hair.
It dwells alone in the pride of its form,
A lonely thing in the populous air.
From the hanging cliffs it whirls away,
All seasons through, all the livelong day.

The white dew of the chrysanthemum
Of my house,—
(Dripping) every day
In how many ages will it collect and become a pool?