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EIGHTH SONG
THE SPRING FRESHETS
Winrer it was not, it was not spring,
Rainfall time,
Weeks of down-pouring, of snow-banks melting.
Mountain avalanches, and felling of forests, —
Then came the fierce and ravaging tempests !
Terror-stricken, men gathered at the hearth-side,
Listening to the snow-fields, at the floods staring,
Waited and prayed.
Safety was there in no direction,
The boats were away,
Broken the bridges. . .
Thought they, each time a snow-slide started:
Now is our turn!
At times they saw
Overtake the land-slide’s rushing horror
A near-by dwelling:
Saw it balanced high up on the mountain,
Growing apace, looming, and falling;
Like a host from the pit it swept darkly onward,
Shaking the earth,
Trees fled before it like living creatures... .
The hurricane tore with the speed of an arrow,
Onward it dashed,
Uprooted and crashed,
Flung out and smashed
Houses in thousands of splinters.
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