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Deep in a gorge, below the glimmering arch
Of pallid birches crowning cliffs of slate;
Deep down where, swift as passion, strong as fate,
With shudder and swirl the white-fanged waters
lurch;
Down where, forever envious of the march
Of sun and silent stars in lofty state,
The river's rockbound echoes howl their hate
Forever up those walls of slate and birch,
There leans a fisherman.  With easy poise,
By backwaters near shore he poles his way;
And like a sage or poet whose bowed head is
Bent wholly on thought's bright elusive prey,
Letting the main stream pass with all its noise,
In pools he drops his net, in quiet eddies.
Dordogne, France