THOU art flowing, thou art flowing, Oh, small and silvery brook; The rushes by thee growing, And with a patient look The pale narcissus o'er thee bends, Like one who asks in vain for friends. I bring not back my childhood, Sweet comrade of its hours; The music of the wild wood, The colour of the flowers; They do not bring again the dream That haunted me beside thy stream. When black-lettered old romances Made a world for me alone; Oh, days of lovely fancies, Are ye for ever flown? Ye are fled, sweet, vague, and vain, So I cannot dream again. I have left a feverish pillow For thy soothing song; Alas, each fairy billow An image bears along; Look where I will, I only see One face too much beloved by me. In vain my heart remembers What pleasure used to be My past thoughts are but embers Consumed by love for thee. I wish to love thee less -- and feel A deeper fondness o'er me steal. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AUTUMN SONG by KATHERINE MANSFIELD DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE LAST CHRYSANTHEMUM by THOMAS HARDY A LULLABY by LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA UNSEASONABLE SNOWS by ALFRED AUSTIN PSALM 100 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE ON THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES, LORD HERBERT by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |