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Hilaire Belloc - The Evenlode
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I will not try to reach again,
       I will not set my sail alone,
     To moor a boat bereft of men
       At Yarnton`s tiny docks of stone.
     
     But I will sit beside the fire,
       And put my hand before my eyes,
     And trace, to fill my heart`s desire,
       The last of all our Odysseys.
     
     The quiet evening kept her tryst:
       Beneath an open sky we rode,
     And passed into a wandering mist
       Along the perfect Evenlode.
     
     The tender Evenlode that makes
       Her meadows hush to hear the sound
     Of waters mingling in the brakes,
       And binds my heart to English ground.
     
     A lovely river, all alone,
       She lingers in the hills and holds
     A hundred little towns of stone,
       Forgotten in the western wolds.
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