The Hearst newspapers print this poem each year as a commemoration to their founder, William Randolph Hearst, who died Aug. 14, 1951. It has long been my favorite, and I hope you enjoy it as well.
The snow melts on the mountain,
and the water runs down to the spring,
And the spring in a turbulent fountain,
with a song of youth to sing,
Runs down to the riotous river,
and the river flows to the sea,
And the water again, goes back in rain,
to the hills where it used to be.
And I wonder if life’s deep mystery
isn’t much like the rain and the snow,
Returning through all eternity,
to the places it used to know.
For life was born on the lofty heights,
and flows in a laughing stream,
To the river below, whose onward flow
ends in a peaceful dream.
And so at last, when our life has passed,
and the river has run its course,
It again goes back o’er the self same track,
to the mountain which was its source.
So why prize life, or why fear death,
or dread what is to be?
The river ran its allotted span,
till it reached the silent sea.
Then the water harked back,
to the mountain top,
to begin its course once more.
So we shall run the course begun
, till we reach the silent shore.
Then revisit earth, in a pure rebirth,
from the heart of the virgin snow.
So don’t ask why we live or die,
or whither, or when we go,
Or wonder about the mysteries,
that only God may know.
May grace and peace be multiplied to you. Bob