A Song at the Start
Oh, down the quick river our galley is going,
With a sound in the cordage, a beam on the sail:
The wind of the canyon our loose hair is blowing,
And the clouds of the morning are glad of the gale.
Around the swift prow little billows are breaking,
And flinging their foam in a glory of light;
Now the shade of a rock on the river is shaking,
And a wave leaps high up growing suddenly white.
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