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Updated: May 1, 2025
"'Up in the wild, where no one comes to look, There lives and sings, a little lonely brook; Liveth and singeth in the dreary pines, Yet creepeth on to where the daylight shines. "'Pure from their heaven, in mountain chalice caught, It drinks the rains, as drinks the soul her thought; And down dim hollows, where it winds along, Bears its life-burden of unlistened song.
To the ears of the herders it was music, like the thunder of stamps to a miner or the rumble of a waterfall to a lonely fisher; the old, unlistened music of their calling, above which the clamor of the world must fight its way. But to the cowmen it was like all hell broken loose, a confusion, a madness, a babel which roused every passion in their being and filled them with a lust to kill.
That still small voice of conscience, unheard and unlistened to amidst the din and bustle of life, speaks audibly to us now; and while chastened on one side by regrets, we are sustained on the other by some approving thought; and with many a sorrow for the past, and many a promise for the future, we begin to feel "how good it is for us to be here."
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