GENIUS

(Lucerne)

Who has not seen it —

how the water that was strolling

Sunday-like along the river’s boulevard,

never quite stopping (as one needn’t, you know)

to admire a tree, a gabled house, a Swiss and indolent sheep,

eddying now and then for humor,

twirling a leaf or nudging a sandal that won’t sink,

all the while warbling a gurgle nothing like Schubert

yet endearing enough —

how, when banks narrow, it speeds to a crash,

races deep and muscled, the eye cannot follow it,

it whirls, kicks, heaves, swallows, spits

and so resembles genius and is wonderful.

Avoid it, friends.