Ballad of the Silver Bridge

Where strong and sturdy currents flowed In rhythms like the march, There stood majestic girders In a towering silver arch. With pride, the span was erected Above the swollen run, Where it caught infrequent glances From a feeble winter sun. The currents seldom paused below To give the bridge a care; But through the years they granted Its lumbering presence there. It shuddered at the heavy loads That strained its cabled line; It trembled when the monstrous rigs Crept hard across its spine. Then pushed to utter exhaustion By the crowded holiday, The bridge exhaled its final sigh And vanished clean away. The river moans a painful dirge For cold and still and dead Beneath the phantom silver bridge, The gushing flood is red. Gurgling, whimpering, lapping near The feet of those who wait; The waters pen a ballad on The cruelty of fate.