The Stream

As raven flies high above rust-tinted plain
And fervently searches for morsel of grain,
The sun, climbing high in the clear desert sky
Sends rays upon desolate earth, hot and dry.

No grain shall be found there upon scorch-ed earth,
No ploughman would ever earn bread by his work;
For water is scarce, and the rain falleth not
Where sky clear remains over dusty fields hot.

Yet through this strange valley of verdure bereft
There, through the earth rocky, appears a small cleft!
For life-giving water can ne’er be denied 
Its course it pursueth, to join with the tide.

So press on, dear trav’ler, though desert you face;
Let not desolation your courage efface,
Nor scorching temptation then hinder your task,
But rather press on to the ocean at last.