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.