The churn of its foam, as the measureless pour
Of that wide-brimming torrent leaps sheer from the steep!
Look ye; it reaches small fingers of spray
To clutch at the brink, as unwilling to go
Through the perilous air, and be fretted away
In the tumult of vapor that boileth below.
List ye! the voice of the huge undertone
That murmurs in pain from the cataract’s breast,
Where the bruised, shattered waters perpetual moan
And wander and toss in a weary unrest.