There are rivers that I know, born of ice and melting snow, white with rapids, swift to roar, with no farms along their shore, with no cattle come to drink at a staid and welcoming brink, with no millwheel, ever turning, in that cold relentless churning. Only deer and bear and mink at those shallows come to drink, only paddles, swift and light, flick that current in their flight. I have felt my heart beat high, watching with exultant eye, those pure rivers which have known no will, no purpose but their own. 78.This poem is written from the point of view of a poet who A. Is afraid of what she describes B. Is unaffected by what she describes C. Has wanted to experience what she describes D. Has personally witnessed what she describes