Over the sheer stone cliff-face, over springs and star clusters Of maidenhair giving in and in to the spray Through thorn-clawed crookshanks And gnarled root ends like vines where the sun has never from dawn To noon or dusk come spilling its cascades, The stream is falling, at the brink Blue-green but whitening and churning to pale rain And falling farther, neither as rain nor mist But both now, pouring And changing as it must, exchanging all for all over all Around and past your shape to a dark-green pool Below, where it tumbles Over another verge to become a stream once more Downstream in curving slopes under a constant Cloud of what it was And will be, and beside it, sharing the storm of its arrival Your voice and all your words are disappearing Into this water falling.