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.
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