Richard Watson Gilder

The New Day. Part 3. 21. The River

I know thou art not that brown mountain-side,
⁠     Nor the pale mist that lies along the hills
⁠     And with white joy the deepening valley fills;
⁠     Nor yet the solemn river moving wide
Into that valley, where the hills abide
⁠     But whence those morning clouds on noiseless wheels
     ⁠Shall lingering lift and, as the moonlight steals
⁠     From out the heavens, so into the heavens shall glide.
I know thou art not this gray rock that looms
     ⁠Above the water, fringed with scarlet vine;
     ⁠Nor flame of burning meadow; nor the sedge
That sways and trembles at the river's edge.
⁠     But through all these, dear heart! to me there comes
⁠     Some melancholy, absent look of thine.