And instead of bridge to span it, there were stepping-stones of granite,—
And where’er the river ran, it seemed of hidden wealth to speak.
Presently my soul grew stronger, and I, too, was fain to speak:—
I assumed a pose plastique.
“Stream,” said I, “I’ll celebrate thee! Rhymes and Rhythms galore await thee!
In the weekly ‘poets corner’ I’ll a niche for thee bespeak:
But to aid my lucubration, thou must tell thine appellation,
Tell thy Naiad-designation—for the Journal of next week—
Give thy sweet Pactolian title to my poem of next week.
Whisper, whisper it—in Greek!”