Where of yore the fish-hawks bred,
Hear the thirsty turbines mumble in the gorge,
Tearing twice ten thousand horse-power
From the prisoned waters' head
To drive the distant smelter, mill and forge.
Now lakes of water ripple
Where before the sands lay dry,
And beyond the concrete walls which hold them caged—
Run shimmering, silver channels
Through fields of wheat and rye