No End of No-Story

2 0 00

No End of No-Story

There is a river

whose waters run asleep

run run ever

singing in the shallows

dumb in the hollows

sleeping so deep

and all the swallows

that dip their feathers

in the hollows

or in the shallows

are the merriest swallows

and the nests they make

with the clay they cake

with the water they shake

from their wings that rake

the water out of the shallows

or out of the hollows

will hold together

in any weather

and the swallows

are the merriest fellows

and have the merriest children

and are built very narrow

like the head of an arrow

to cut the air

and go just where

the nicest water is flowing

and the nicest dust is blowing

and each so narrow

like the head of an arrow

is a wonderful barrow

to carry the mud he makes

for his children’s sakes

from the wet water flowing

and the dry dust blowing

to build his nest

for her he loves best

and the wind cakes it

the sun bakes it

into a nest

for the rest

of her he loves best

and all their merry children

each little fellow

with a beak as yellow

as the buttercups growing

beside the flowing

of the singing river

always and ever

growing and blowing

as fast as the sheep

awake or asleep

crop them and crop

and cannot stop

their yellowness blowing

nor yet the growing

of the obstinate daisies

the little white praises

they grow and they blow

they spread out their crown

and they praise the sun

and when he goes down

their praising is done

they fold up their crown

and sleep every one

till over the plain

he is shining amain

and they’re at it again

praising and praising

such low songs raising

that no one can hear them

but the sun so near them

and the sheep that bite them

but do not fright them

are the quietest sheep

awake or asleep

with the merriest bleat

and the little lambs

are the merriest lambs

forgetting to eat

for the frolic in their feet

and the lambs and their dams

are the whitest sheep

with the woolliest wool

for the swallow to pull

when he makes his nest

for her he loves best

and they shine like snow

in the grasses that grow

by the singing river

that sings for ever

and the sheep and the lambs

are merry for ever

because the river

sings and they drink it

and the lambs and their dams

would any one think it

are bright and white

because of their diet

which gladdens them quiet

for what they bite

is buttercups yellow

and daisies white

and grass as green

as the river can make it

with wind as mellow

to kiss it and shake it

as never was known

but here in the hollows

beside the river

where all the swallows

are the merriest fellows

and the nests they make

with the clay they cake

in the sunshine bake

till they are like bone

and as dry in the wind

as a marble stone

dried in the wind

the sweetest wind

that blows by the river

flowing for ever

and who shall find

whence comes the wind

that blows on the hollows

and over the shallows

where dip the swallows

and comes and goes

and the sweet life blows

into the river

that sings as it flows

and the sweet life blows

into the sheep

awake or asleep

with the woolliest wool

and the trailingest tails

and never fails

gentle and cool

to wave the wool

and to toss the grass

as the lambs and the sheep

over it pass

and tug and bite

with their teeth so white

and then with the sweep

of their trailing tails

smooth it again

and it grows amain

and amain it grows

and the wind that blows

tosses the swallows

over the hollows

and over the shallows

and blows the sweet life

and the joy so rife

into the swallows

that skim the shallows

and have the yellowest children

and the wind that blows

is the life of the river

that flows for ever

and washes the grasses

still as it passes

and feeds the daisies

the little white praises

and buttercups sunny

with butter and honey

that whiten the sheep

awake or asleep

that nibble and bite

and grow whiter than white

and merry and quiet

on such good diet

watered by the river

and tossed for ever

by the wind that tosses

the wool and the grasses

and the swallow that crosses

with all the swallows

over the shallows

dipping their wings

to gather the water

and bake the cake

for the wind to make

as hard as a bone

and as dry as a stone

and who shall find

whence comes the wind

that blows from behind

and ripples the river

that flows for ever

and still as it passes

waves the grasses

and cools the daisies

the white sun praises

that feed the sheep

awake or asleep

and give them their wool

for the swallows to pull

a little away

to mix with the clay

that cakes to a nest

for those they love best

and all the yellow children

soon to go trying

their wings at the flying

over the hollows

and over the shallows

with all the swallows

that do not know

whence the wind doth blow

that comes from behind

a blowing wind