The River

O wandering river, we twain are one;
With thy silver glance and the morning’s sun,
Beckoning me forth through the woods it flows —
Where the willow bough dips like a plume of bows.

And into the vale where the wildflowers grow;
And the wild birds sing, as they flutter and flow;
There in the meadow, by thee I’m drawn,
For the heart of nature shall beckon the dawn.

• G L D Mackay