Elegy

Clear and gentle stream!Known and loved so long,That hast heard the songAnd the idle dreamOf my boyish day;While I once againDown thy margin stray,In the selfsame strainStill my voice is spent,With my old lamentAnd my idle dream,Clear and gentle stream!

Where my old seat wasHere again I sit,Where the long boughs knitOver stream and grassA translucent eaves:Where back eddies playShipwreck with the leaves,And the proud swans stray,Sailing one by oneOut of stream and sun,And the fish lie coolIn their chosen pool.

Many an afternoonOf the summer dayDreaming here I lay;And I know how soon,Idly at its hour,First the deep bell humsFrom the minster tower,And then evening comes,Creeping up the glade,With her lengthening shade,And the tardy boonOf her brightening moon.

Clear and gentle stream!Ere again I goWhere thou dost not flow,Well does it beseemThee to hear againOnce my youthful song,That familiar strainSilent now so long:Be as I contentWith my old lamentAnd my idle dream,Clear and gentle stream.

The wood is bare: a river-mist is steepingThe trees that winter's chill of life bereaves:Only their stiffened boughs break silence, weepingOver their fallen leaves;

That lie upon the dank earth brown and rotten,Miry and matted in the soaking wet:Forgotten with the spring, that is forgottenBy them that can forget.

Yet it was here we walked when ferns were springing,And through the mossy bank shot bud and blade:-Here found in summer, when the birds were singing,A green and pleasant shade.

'Twas here we loved in sunnier days and greener;And now, in this disconsolate decay,I come to see her where I most have seen her,And touch the happier day.

For on this path, at every turn and corner,The fancy of her figure on me falls;Yet walks she with the slow step of a mourner,Nor hears my voice that calls.

So through my heart there winds a track of feeling,A path of memory, that is all her own:Whereto her phantom beauty ever stealingHaunts the sad spot alone.

About her steps the trunks are bare, the branchesDrip heavy tears upon her downcast head;And bleed from unseen wounds that no sun stanches,For the year's sun is dead.

And dead leaves wrap the fruits that summer planted:And birds that love the South have taken wing.The wanderer, loitering o'er the scene enchanted,Weeps, and despairs of spring.

Poor withered rose and dry,Skeleton of a rose,Risen to testifyTo love's sad close:

Treasured for love's sweet sake,That of joy pastThou might'st again awakeMemory at last.

Yet is thy perfume sweet;Thy petals redYet tell of summer heat,And the gay bed:

Yet, yet recall the glowOf the gazing sun,When at thy bush we twoJoined hands in one.

But, rose, thou hast not seen,Thou hast not weptThe change that passed between,Whilst thou hast slept.

To me thou seemest yetThe dead dream's thrall:While I live and forgetDream, truth and all.

Thou art more fresh than I,Rose, sweet and red:Salt on my pale cheeks lieThe tears I shed.