Poem 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.

1. Sonnets. 4. They Dub Thee Idler, Smiling Sneeringly
2. Sonnets. 12. What Gossamer Lures Thee Now? What Hope, What Name
3. Sonnets. 6. I Scarcely Grieve, O Nature! at the Lot
4. Sonnets. 14. Are These Wild Thoughts, Thus Fettered in My Rhymes
5. A Common Thought

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