30.07.2007, 11:34
Itchin, when I behold thy banks again,
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,
On which the self-same tints still seem to rest,
Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain?
Is it - that many a summer's day has past
Since, in life's morn, I caroled on thy side?
Is it - that oft, since then, my heart has sighed,
As youth, and hope's delusive gleams, flew fast?
Is it - that those, who circled on thy shore,
Companions of my youth, now meet no more?
Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend
Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart,
As at the meeting of some long-lost friend,
From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part.
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,
On which the self-same tints still seem to rest,
Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain?
Is it - that many a summer's day has past
Since, in life's morn, I caroled on thy side?
Is it - that oft, since then, my heart has sighed,
As youth, and hope's delusive gleams, flew fast?
Is it - that those, who circled on thy shore,
Companions of my youth, now meet no more?
Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend
Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart,
As at the meeting of some long-lost friend,
From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part.