The River of Rivers in Connecticut
By WALLACE STEVENS
There is a great river this side of Stygia
Before one reaches the first dark cataracts
And trees that seem to lack the knowingness of trees.
Along that river, far this side of Stygia,
The simple flow of water is a bright delight,
Flashing and flashing in the sun. On its banks,
No shadow walks. The river carries fate,
Like the last of rivers. Yet there is no ferryman.
He could not lean against its driving force.
It is not visible beneath the surfaces
That hint at it. The steeple at Farmington
Shines and Haddam gleams and sways.
It is the third commonness with light and air,
A curriculum, a vigor, a local abstraction . . .
Call it, once more, a river—an unnamed flowing,
Space-filled, reflecting seasons and the folklore
Of every sense; call it, again and again,
The river that seems to flow nowhere, like a sea.