Classic Poem

I followed each detour
Of the slow Stour,
Stopping at times to throw a stick
Lest I should go too quick,
But lost the race,
I could not keep so slow a pace

Though last snow in the copse
Was first snowdrops,
I could not rest even there
Where the weir combed the river's hair
At Flatford Mill;
I wonder if I ever will.