Explore "Sunset on the Bearcamp" by John Greenleaf Whittier on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
A gold fringe on the purpling hem Of hills the river runs, As down its long, green valley falls The last of summer's suns.
Along its tawny gravel-bed Broad-flowing, swift, and still, As if its meadow levels felt The hurry of the hill, Noiseless between its banks of green From curve to curve it slips; The drowsy maple-shadows rest Like fingers on its lips.