Tributaries race To reach your side, to lick Softly against you their submissive waters: Rapid Celbis, known for its fish; Erubris, rolling stones of mills With flying revolutions in the corn, And forcing strident saws through blocks of luminous marble, Hearing continual noise from either bank. I have nothing to say about the lank Lesura, Nothing about the tenuous Drahonus. What can I do with Salmona’s beggarly dribble? Saravus, floating ships on its wave-resounding mass, Has been for some time in my sights— With all the draperies of its robe out loose, Long drawing out its stream, so it might devolve Its tired limits into you, beneath The walls of Imperial Trier; And, last, the Alisontia that slides Lightly, through the fields of fattening regions, Skimming the fruitful lips of its domain. A thousand others—each in the urge Of its own persistent and peculiar impulse— Want to be yours: the end of their ambition, The satisfaction of their inborn humour; These impatient streams.

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