English poem
Vi
by R. D. Blackmore (1825–1900)
When they tread the river's margent, All their mitred heads are bowed-- What hath browned the ripples argent, Like the plume of thunder-cloud?
Where yestreen the water slumbered, With a sickly crust encumbered, Leapeth now a roaring flood, Wild as war, and red as blood.
Every billow hurries quicker, Every surge runs up the strand; While the brindled eddies flicker, Scourged as with a levin brand.