The broad-backed hippopotamus Rests on his belly in the mud. The foam about his nostrils spreads Like a white fringe upon a blackened lip. He will not drink the river water But digs himself a pool of his own, and lies there like a god. They call him the river-horse, the marsh-beast; He is gaunt and grizzled and has the manners of a peasant. But when he moves, the ground trembles, And the low grasses bend their heads before him.
Ho, little fishes, little fishes! What news from the deep pools? Is the water sweet? is the bottom clean? Have the weeds a pleasant smell? What do the frogs say? what do the cranes? what do the herons say? Are you content with the dark mud? Are you content with the little flashy fishes? Have you seen any ships? Have you heard any guns?
The monks go by on pilgrimage, And the bishop rides his mule. They do not look to the right or the left; They raise their eyes toward the sky. They fast, and rise before day; They pray, and give alms, and keep silence. They are the guardians of the immortal secret. They have the keys of heaven; they have the keys of death. They are in the presence of the Pope; they are in the presence of the Lord.
The hippopotamus cares nothing for men Who are 'holy' because they are poor. He treads upon the lilies and does not know them. He drinks at night and sleeps by day; He is the image of leisure and contentment. He has no need of prayers; he has no need of fasts. He knows his own strength and does not boast. He is happy in his own huge skin. He has the patience of a beast, the patience of a god.
And yet there are those who say the Church is richer Because it owns the lands, and has the rents and the tithes. They say the monks have their books and their candles, And the bishop has his mitre and his staff; They say the people love them because they are poor. But the hippopotamus asks for none of their love. He laughs at their doctrines and their ceremonies, At the processions and the painted saints; He is not impressed by their crucifixes.
When winter comes and the river freezes, When the reeds are shorn and the little pools are still, The hippopotamus turns in his sleep and stamps. He breaks the ice with his great shoulders; He wades into the open water and snorts. He shakes the cold from his thick hide, And goes down into the deep, dark pools. There he feeds upon the roots of the water-plants, And lives in the silence and the dark.
So let the priests preach and let the bishops pray; Let the scholars dispute and the poets sigh. The world goes on as it has always gone; The rivers flow, the grasses grow, the floods come and go. The hippopotamus will be there when the tempest passes, Unmoved by sermons, untroubled by doctrine. He will lie again in his own pool of mud, And men will praise him in their proverbs, And children will shout at the sight of his broad back.