Swift and silent and strong
Under the low-browed arches,
Through culverts, and under bridges,
Sweeping with long forced marches
Down to the ultimate ridges,—
The sand, and the reeds, and the midges,
And the down-dropping tassels of larches,
That border the ocean of song.
Swift and silent and deep
Through the noisome and smoke-grimed city,
Turning the wheels and the spindles,
And the great looms that have no pity,—
Weight, and pulley, and windlass,
And steel that flashes and kindles,
And hears no forest-learnt ditty,
Not even in dreams and sleep.
Blithe and merry and sweet
Over its shallows singing,—
I hear before I awaken
The Bound of the church-bells ringing,
And the sound of the leaves wind-shaken,
Complaining and sun-forsaken,
And the oriole warbling and singing,
And the swish of the wind in the wheat
Sweet and tender and true!
From meadows of blossoming clover,
Where sleepy-eyed cows are lowing,
And bobolinks twittering over,—
Ebbing and falling and flowing—
Singing and gliding and going—
The river—my silver-shod lover,
Down to the infinite blue.
Deep, and tender, and strong!
With resonant voice and hole—
To far away sunshiny places,
Haunts of the bee and the swallow,
Where the Sabbath is sweet with the praises
Of dumb things, of weeds and of daisies,—
Oh river! I hear thee—I follow
To the ocean where I too belong.