And gaze I now upon the same slow stream? Yon bends are as they were, and that birch tree Doth still lean o'er that pool; some parts must be Much deeper worn, some shallower are; like cream The froth upon the water now doth seem In yonder cove; the paths, once trod by me, To-day are all grass-grown; naught can I see, Where stood the foot-worn bridge, save one rude beam! Here, to each sight and sound, I soon am lost: Days, dear and dead, that lie so far behind, Dawn bright once more; again I seem to roam These flats and banks with one both strong and kind, Till all the fields are dark,—and then go home:— But he another bridgeless stream has crossed! |