Frederick George Scott (1861–1944)

WHY hurry, little river?

Why hurry to the sea?

There is nothing there to do

But to sink into the blue

And all forgotten be.

There is nothing on that shore

But the tides for evermore,

And the faint and far-off line

Where the winds across the brine

For ever, ever roam

And never find a home.

Why hurry, little river,

From the mountains and the mead,

Where the graceful elms are sleeping

And the quiet cattle feed?

The loving shadows cool

The deep and restful pool,

And every tribute stream

Brings its own sweet woodland dream

Of the mighty woods that sleep

Where the sighs of earth are deep,

And the silent skies look down

On the savage mountain’s frown.

Oh, linger, little river!

Your banks are all so fair,

Each morning is a hymn of praise,

Each evening is a prayer.

All day the sunbeams glitter

On your shallows and your bars,

And at night the dear God stills you

With the music of the stars.