A little low wall—and looked over, and there was the river,
The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river.
Clear-shining and slow, she had far far to go from her snow;
But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow,
And she murmured methought, with a speech very soft, very low—
“The ways will be long, but the days will be long,” quoth the river,
“To me a long liver, long, long!” quoth the river—the river.
I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky,
The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under.
But at last—in a day or two namely—Eleven and I