Elegy

Clear and gentle stream, Known and loved so long, That hast heard the song And the idle dream Of my boyish day; While I once again Down thy margin stray, In the selfsame strain Still my voice is spent, With my old lament, And my idle dream, Clear and gentle stream!

Where my old seat was Here again I sit, Where the long boughs knit Over stream and graís Thick translucent eaves: Where back eddies play Shipwreck with the leaves, And the proud swans stray, Sailing one by one Out of stream and sun, And the fish lie cool In their chosen pool.

Many an afternoon Of the summer day Dreaming here I lay; And I know how soon Idly at its hour First the deep bell hums From the minster tower, And then evening comes, Creeping up the glade, With her lengthening shade, And the tardy boon Of her brightening moon.

Clear and gentle stream, Ere again I go Where thou dost not flow, Well does it beseem Thee to hear again Once my youthful song, That familiar strain Silent now so long: Be as I content With my old lament, And my idle dream, Clear and gentle stream!

Dear lady, when thou frownest, And my true love despisest, And all thy vows disownest That sealed my venture wisest; I think thy pride’s displeasure Neglects a matchless treasure Exceeding price and measure.

But when again thou smilest, And love for love returnest, And fear with joy beguilest, And takest truth in earnest; Then, though I most adore thee, The sum of my love for thee Seems poor, scant and unworthy.

Poor withered rose and dry, Skeleton of a rose, Risen to testify To love’s sad close:

Treasured for love’s sweet sake, That of joy past Thou might’st again awake Memory at last:

Yet is thy perfume sweet, Thy petals red Yet tell of summer heat, And the gay bed:

Yet yet recall the glow Of the gazing sun, When at thy bush we two Joined hands in one.

But, rose, thou hast not seen, Thou hast not wept The change that passed between Whilst thou hast slept.

To me thou seemest yet The dead dream’s thrall: While I live and forget Dream, truth and all.

Thou art more fresh than I, Rose, sweet and red: Salt on my pale cheeks lie The tears I shed.

I found to-day out walking The flower my love loves best. What, when I stooped to pluck it, Could dare my hand arrest?

Was it a snake lay curling About the root’s thick crown? Or did some hidden bramble Tear my hand reaching down?

There was no snake uncurling, And no thorn wounded me; ’Twas my heart checked me, sighing She is beyond the sea.

Will Love again awake, That lies asleep so long? O hush! ye tongues that shake The drowsy night with song.

It is a lady fair Whom once he deigned to praise, That at the door doth dare Her sad complaint to raise.

She must be fair of face, As bold in heart she seems, If she would match her grace With the delight of dreams.

Her beauty would surprise Gazers on Autumn eves, Who watched the broad moon rise Upon the scattered sheaves.

O sweet must be the voice He shall descend to hear, Who doth in Heaven rejoice His most enchanted ear.

The smile, that rests to play Upon her lip, foretells What musical array Tricks her sweet syllables.

And yet her smiles have danced In vain, if her discourse Win not the soul entranced In divine intercourse.

She will encounter all This trial without shame, Her eyes men Beauty call, And Wisdom is her name.

Throw back the portals then, Ye guards, your watch that keep, Love will awake again That lay so long asleep.