The River

The River She drapes along the valley like an evening stole As if let loose to waft from some angelic hand To move along the meadow in soft curves and folds As if mere ornament upon the verdant land. She undulates in rhythm over beds of stone And ripples playfully with every touch of breeze Then having spent her course in movements long and slow She slips into a wood to hide among the trees. Would that I too were quite so languidly disposed, So unencumbered by life’s various terrain Allowing obstacles to teach me manifold Without resistance and devoid of all complaint.