The Waters Of Sorga

How often, flying to my dim retreat, From others and if may be my own soul, I saw the slow tears beat my breast and feet And touch the tender grass! How often whole Soft Summer days, O Life! your own days, sweet And long and gay, I trod by ways of dole, Seeking my high delight, whom Death’s deceit Had seized on where his lethal waters roll. Goddess or nymph, in some immortal guise, I saw her come from Sorga’s clearest deeps To sit upon the bank; with hungry eyes I watched her tread the field-flowers where they creep, Which as from mortal lady’s foot did rise; And to her eyes a grief for me did leap.