But while, unpictured and unsung By painter or by poet, Our river waits the tuneful tongue And cunning hand to show it, We only know the fond skies lean Above it, warm with blessing, And the sweet soul of our Undine Awakes to our caressing.

So it went down unpictured into a bank of grey heat that hid the horizon of the sea, and no one thought it worth watching except a man coming alone along the cliff from the northeast.