WHY hurry, little river, <br />Why hurry to the sea? <br />There is nothing there to do <br />But to sink into the blue <br />And all forgotten be. <br />There is nothing on that shore <br />But the tides for evermore, <br />And the faint and far-off line <br />Where the winds across the brine <br />For ever, ever roam <br />And never find a home. <br /> <br />Why hurry, little river, <br />From the mountains and the mead, <br />Where the graceful elms are sleeping <br />And the quiet cattle feed? <br />The loving shadows cool <br />The deep and restful pool; <br />And every tribute stream <br />Brings its own sweet woodland dream <br />Of the mighty woods that sleep <br />Where the sighs of earth are deep, <br />And the silent skies look down <br />On the savage mountain's frown. <br /> <br />Oh, linger, little river, <br />Your banks are all so fair, <br />Each morning is a hymn of praise, <br />Each evening is a prayer. <br />All day the sunbeams glitter <br />On your shallows and your bars, <br />And at night the dear God stills you <br />With the music of the stars.<br /><br />Frederick George Scott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-river-47/
