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.
Ticknor And Fields, Boston