THE STREAM

by: Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu (1814-1873)

HEN moonlight falls on wave and wimple,

And silvers every circling dimple,

That onward, onward sails:

When fragrant hawthorns wild and simple

Lend perfume to the gales,

When the pale moon in heaven abiding,

O'er midnight mists and mountains riding,

Shines on the river smoothly gliding

Through quiet dales--

 

I wander on in solitude,

Charmed by the chiming music rude

Of streams that fret and flow,

For by that eddying stream she stood,

On such a night I trow:

For her the thorn its breath was lending,

On this same tide her eye was bending,

And with its voice her voice was blending

Long, long ago.

 

Wild stream! I walk by thee once more,

I see thy hawthorns dim and hoar,

I hear the waters moan,

And night winds sigh from shore to shore

With hushed and hollow tone;

But breezes on their light way winging,

And all thy waters' heedless singing,

No more to me are gladness bringing--

I am alone.

 

Years after years, their swift way keeping,

Like sere leaves down thy current sweeping,

Are lost for aye, and sped--

And Death the wintry soil is heaping

As fast as flowers are shed.

And she who wandered by my side,

And breathed enchantment o'er the tide,

That makes thee still my friend and guide--

And she is dead.

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