There is a fish, that quivers in the pool, itself a shadow, but its shadow, clear. Catch it again and again, it still is there. Against the flowing stream, its life keeps pace with death - the impulse and the flash of grace hiding in its stillness, moves to be motionless. No net will hold it - always it will return Where the ripples settle, and the sand - It lives unmoved, equated with the stream, As flowers are fit for air, man for his dream.