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