To turn your back upon the clumsy town,
That is so crooked and so stiff withal
That to the water’s edge it scarce can crawl;
While like a child that in its mother’s gown
Takes refuge, comforted from soul to crown,
Betwixt green bank you slip and gray stone wall;
Past here a plume and there an entire patch
Of golden-rod submerged or islanded,
Past many a bit of color hard to match,
But which the swift stream tempers to its mood,