The River... It's My World, And I

Don't, For Goodness' Sake, Keep On Saying 'don't'; I Hear So Much Of It, And It's Monotonous, And Makes Me Tired.

Home! That Was What They Meant, Those Caressing Appeals, Those Soft Touches Wafted Through The Air, Those Invisible Little Hands Pulling And Tugging, All One Way.

Monkeys Who Very Sensibly Refrain From Speech, Lest They Should Be Set To Earn Their Livings.

The Whole Wood Seemed Running Now, Running Hard, Hunting, Chasing, Closing In Round Something Or - Somebody? In Panic, He Began To Run Too, Aimlessly, He Knew Not Whither.

In Midmost Of The Stream, Embraced In The Weir's Shimmering Arm-spread, A Small Island Lay Anchored, Fringed Close With Willow And Silver Birch And Alder. Reserved, Shy, But Full Of Significance, It Hid Whatever It Might Hold Behind A Veil, Keeping It Till The Hour Should Come, And, With The Hour, Those Who Were Called And Chosen.