The river’s a wanderer, a nomad, a tramp.
He doesn't choose any one place to set up his camp.
The river’s a winder, through valley and hill.
He twists and he turns, he just cannot be still.
The river’s a hoarder and he buries down deep.
Those little treasures that he wants to keep.
The river’s a baby, he gurgles and hums
And sounds like he’s happily sucking his thumbs.
The river’s a singer, as he dances along
The countryside echoes the notes of his song.
The river’s a monster, hungry and vexed
He’s gobbled up trees and he’ll swallow you next.
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Comments about this poem (The River by Luke Rylands )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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