| |
| RIVER, myrtle-rimmed, and set | |
| Deep amongst unfooted dells,— | |
| Daughter of gray hills of wet, | |
| Born by mossed and yellow wells,— | |
| |
| Now that soft September lays | 5 |
| Tender hands on thee and thine, | |
| Let me think of blue-eyed days, | |
| Star-like flowers, and leaves of shine! | |
| |
| Cities soil the life with rust: | |
| Water-banks are cool and sweet: | 10 |
| River, tired of noise and dust | |
| Here I come to rest my feet. | |
| |
| Now the month from shade to sun | |
| Fleets and sings supremest songs, | |
| Now the wilful woodwinds run | 15 |
| Through the tangled cedar throngs. | |
| |
| Here are cushioned tufts and turns | |
| Where the sumptuous noontide lies. | |
| Here are seen by flags and ferns | |
| Summer’s large luxurious eyes. | 20 |
| |
| On this spot wan Winter casts | |
| Eyes of ruth, and spares its green | |
| From his bitter sea-nursed blasts, | |
| Spears of rain and hailstones keen. | |
| |
| Rather here abideth Spring, | 25 |
| Lady of a lovely land, | |
| Dear to leaf and fluttering wing, | |
| Deep in blooms, by breezes fanned. | |
| |
| Faithful friend beyond the main,— | |
| Friend that Time nor Change makes cold,— | 30 |
| Now, like ghosts, return again | |
| Pallid perished days of old. | |
| |
| Ah, the days,—the old, old theme | |
| Never stale, but never new, | |
| Floating, like a pleasant dream, | 35 |
| Back to me and back to you. | |
| |
| Since we rested on these slopes, | |
| Seasons fierce have beaten down | |
| Ardent loves and blossoming hopes, | |
| Loves that lift, and hopes that crown. | 40 |
| |
| But, believe me, still mine eyes | |
| Often fill with light that springs | |
| From divinity, which lies | |
| Ever at the heart of things. | |
| |
| Solace do I sometimes find | 45 |
| Where you used to hear with me | |
| Songs of stream and forest-wind, | |
| Tones of wave and harp-like tree. | |
| |
| Araluen! home of dreams! | |
| Fairer for its flowerful glade | 50 |
| Than the face of Persian streams | |
| Or the slopes of Syrian shade. | |
| |
| Why should I still love it so? | |
| Friend and brother far away, | |
| Ask the winds that come and go, | 55 |
| What hath brought me here to-day. | |
| |
| Evermore of you I think, | |
| When the leaves begin to fall, | |
| Where our river breaks its brink, | |
| And a rest is over all. | 60 |
| |
| Evermore in quiet lands, | |
| Friend of mine beyond the sea, | |
| Memory comes with cunning hands, | |
| Stays, and paints your face for me. | |
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