Portrait of Henry Timrod

Henry Timrod

Dec 8, 1828 - Oct 6, 1867

 

The Stream Is Flowing From The West

by 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,
'Twill 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.

Source:

Poems
Copyright 1860
Ticknor And Fields, Boston
 
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