The river holds no more the fishing boats, For long ago the last one rotted away: And down its ever-meandering curves of blue, No masts jut out, eager to fight the spray. But on dim winter nights, When two by two the lights Burn out among the sleepy villages Which line its banks; The clouds roll over, heavy ranks, from seaward, And storm the steep waves of the sky. These are like scudding barks with hoisted sail, These are blue fishing smacks, setting forth for the shoal of stars; Lot Tubman or Amos Barker holds the wheel, While through the sky before the wind they reel. And the long lines of rain Descend upon the earth like ghostly trawl-lines: But ere the yawning chimneys blow smoke into the morning, The river sleeps, the boats are gone again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MONODY ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM MARION REEDY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS by ROBERT BURNS TO GOD AND IRELAND TRUE by ELLEN O'LEARY MUSIC, FR. TWELFTH NIGHT by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE FOREIGN LANDS by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE PRINCESS: SONG by ALFRED TENNYSON |