Where Go the Boats?

Dark brown is the river,

Golden is the sand.

It flows along forever,

With trees on every hand.

Green leaves a-floating,

Castles of the foam,

Boats of mine a-boating—

Where will all come home?

On goes the river

And out past the mill,

Away down the valley,

Away down the hill.

Away down the river,

A hundred miles or more,

Other little children

Shall bring my boats ashore.

—Robert Louis Stevenson.