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Poem by Henry Timrod
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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.
Henry Timrod's other poems:
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