There is a great river this side of Stygia <br />Before one comes to the first black cataracts <br />And trees that lack the intelligence of trees. <br /> <br />In that river, far this side of Stygia, <br />The mere flowing of the water is a gayety, <br />Flashing and flashing in the sun. On its banks, <br /> <br />No shadow walks. The river is fateful, <br />Like the last one. But there is no ferryman. <br />He could not bend against its propelling force. <br /> <br />It is not to be seen beneath the appearances <br />That tell of it. The steeple at Farmington <br />Stands glistening and Haddam shines and sways. <br /> <br />It is the third commonness with light and air, <br />A curriculum, a vigor, a local abstraction . . . <br />Call it, one more, a river, an unnamed flowing, <br /> <br />Space-filled, reflecting the seasons, the folk-lore <br />Of each of the senses; call it, again and again, <br />The river that flows nowhere, like a sea.<br /><br />Wallace Stevens<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-river-of-rivers-in-connecticut-2/
