Richard Chenevix Trench (Ричард Ченевикс Тренч)

In the Isle of Mull

THE CLOUDS are gathering in their western dome,
Deep-drenched with sunlight, as a fleece with dew,
While I with baffled effort still pursue
And track these waters toward their mountain-home,
In vain—though cataract, and mimic foam,
And island-spots, round which the streamlet threw
Its sister-arms, which joyed to meet anew,
Have lured me on, and won me still to roam;
Till now, coy nymph, unseen thy waters pass,
Or faintly struggle through the twinkling grass,—
And I, thy founts unvisited, return.
Is it that thou art revelling with thy peers?
Or dost thou feed a solitary urn,
Else unreplenished, with thine own sad tears?

1. To the Same (Look, dearest, what a glory from the sun)
2. Sonnet (What good soever in thy heart or mind)
3. To the Same (O dowered with a searching glance to see)
4. The Island of Madeira
5. England (We look for, and have promise to behold)

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