"WHAT hearest thou? That swelling sigh and slow-rebellious moan Is the weir water talking all alone, The water, as at dusk through centuries flown, More audible now. "Once more thou seest The sun far off surrendering his tired head Into the seas of sleep? his royal red Shall soon salute the shepherds, comfort spread Through a clear east. "Thou feelest -- nothing But airs dark-fluttering from the bulrush-grove, Moth-like; and may not evening zephyrs rove? Or mist-veil brushed thee, fine as yet was wove For moonmaid's clothing." "Turn thy dear brow Full towards me, with thy young strong arm infold, For I am trapped, on a sudden made centuries old; Warm me a little, the mist clings deadly cold That veils me now." |