The River of Rivers in Connecticut

There is a great river this side of Stygia
Before one comes to the first black cataracts
And trees that lack the intelligence of trees
In that river, far this side of Stygia
The mere flowing of the water is a gayety
Flashing and flashing in the sun. On its banks
No shadow walks. The river is fateful
Like the last one. But there is no ferryman
He could not bend against its propelling force
It is not to be seen beneath the appearances
That tell of it. The steeple at Farmington
Stands glistening and Haddam shines and sways
It is the third commonness with light and air
A curriculum, a vigor, a local abstraction
Call it, one more, a river, an unnamed flowing
Space-filled, reflecting the seasons, the folk-lore
Of each of the senses; call it, again and again
The river that flows nowhere, like a sea