The Stream is Flowing from the West
The stream is flowing from the west;As if it poured from yonder skies,It wears upon its rippling breastThe sunset’s golden dyes;And bearing onward to the sea,‘T will clasp the isle that holdeth thee.
I dip my hand within the wave;Ah! how impressionless and cold!I touch it with my lip, and laveMy forehead in the gold.It is a trivial thought, but sweet,Perhaps the wave will kiss thy feet.
Alas! I leave no trace behind—As little on the senseless streamAs on thy heart, or on thy mind;Which was the simpler dream,To win that warm, wild love of thine,Or make the water whisper mine?
Dear stream! some moons must wax and waneEre I again shall cross thy tide,And then, perhaps, a viewless chainWill drag me to her side,To love with all my spirit’s scope,To wish, do everything but—hope.