“Down to the sea?” said Tom. “Everything is going to the sea, and I shall go, too. Good-by, trout.”
Now down the rushing stream he went, guided by the bright flashes of the storm; past tall birch-fringed rocks, which shone out one moment as clear as day, and the next were dark as night.
Past dark coves under the banks, from which great trout rushed out on Tom, thinking him to be good to eat, but turned back quickly, for the fairies sent them home again with a scolding for daring to meddle with a water-baby. Along deep reaches, where the white water-lilies tossed and flapped beneath the wind and hail; past sleeping villages; under dark bridges, and away and away to the sea. Tom could not stop, and did not care to stop; he would see the great world below, and the salmon, and the breakers, and the wide, wide sea.—Charles Kingsley.
AN APRIL DAY
All day the low-hung clouds have dropped
Their garnered fulness down;
All day that soft gray mist hath wrapped
Hill, valley, grove, and town.
There has not been a sound to-day