The River The sun went down like a golden bell,

And the fields have turned to gray,

Like a woman’s hair beneath the veil,

Sad and soft in the fading day.

The river flows like a thought of dreams,

Wild in its laughter and free;

All its beauty is washed in the light

Of silver shadows, you see.

I watch the flocks of the foam

Go swirling about in the dusk,

Like the last of all the voices,

Like the fading scent of musk.

Let me be silent; let me draw near,

Sink into the still of the night,

The river runs gentle, and all

Is quieted among its light.

• John Gould Fletcher