The River

Swift with the dawn she rises, quick and cold,
Rattling the pebbles with her silver shoon,
Chasing a thousand fish of instant gold,
And racing into noon.

But in the night so tired at having tracked
Her great sea-lover to his sounding lair;
Down from the shoulders of her cataract,
She loosens all her hair.

by Leon Gellert

Other poems of LEON GELLERT (81)

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