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 Yet, see! past the cow-bails, Down, deep in the gully, What glimmers? What silver Streaks the grey dusk? ’Tis the River, the River! Ah, gladly Thor thinks of the River, His playmate, his comrade, Down there all day, All the long day, betwixt lumber and cumber, Sparkling and singing; Lively glancing, adventurously speeding, Busy and bright as a needle in knitting Running in, running out, running over and under The logs that bridge it, the logs that block it, The logs that helplessly trail in its waters, The jamm’d-up jetsam, the rooted snags. Twigs of konini, bronze leaf-boats of wineberry Launch’d in the River, they also will run with it, They cannot stop themselves, twisting and twirling They too will keep running, away and away. Yes; for on runs the River, it presses, it passes On—by the fence, by the bails, by the landslip, away down the gully, On, ever onward and on! The hills remain, the logs and the gully remain, Changeless as ever, and still; But the River changes, the River passes. Nothing else stirring about it, It stirs, it is quick, ’tis alive! “What is the River, the running River? Where does it come from? Where does it go?”