The Stream is Flowing from the West

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,

‘ T will 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.