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.