English poem
The Stream is Flowing from the West
by Henry Timrod
The Stream is Flowing from the West As if it poured from yonder skies, It wears upon its rippling breast The 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 lave My 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 stream As 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 wane Ere I again shall cross thy tide, And then, perhaps, a viewless chain Will drag me to her side, To love with all my spirit's scope, To wish, do everything but—hope.