I will not try to reach again, <br />I will not set my sail alone, <br />To moor a boat bereft of men <br />At Yarnton's tiny docks of stone. <br /> <br />But I will sit beside the fire, <br />And put my hand before my eyes, <br />And trace, to fill my heart's desire, <br />The last of all our Odysseys. <br /> <br />The quiet evening kept her tryst: <br />Beneath an open sky we rode, <br />And passed into a wandering mist <br />Along the perfect Evenlode. <br /> <br />The tender Evenlode that makes <br />Her meadows hush to hear the sound <br />Of waters mingling in the brakes, <br />And binds my heart to English ground. <br /> <br />A lovely river, all alone, <br />She lingers in the hills and holds <br />A hundred little towns of stone, <br />Forgotten in the western wolds.<br /><br />Hilaire Belloc<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-evenlode-2/
