The Two Streams.
OO COOL the summer woodsOf dear Gartshore, where bloomSoft clouds of white anemonesAmong their own perfume.And clear the little brooklet,Singing an endless lay,Winding its nameless watersClose by the white highway.And here in sweet sensation,And soul-uneasy swoon,I’ve lain for many a goldenHour of a summer noon.The cushatscroonedaround meTheir murmuring amorous song;And in a brooding drowsiness,The echoes swooned along;Till all the sweet sensationsGrew into utter pain,And I was fain to wanderAll sadly home again.There have been brotherhoods in song,And human friendships true;There have been lovers unto death,Yes, and right many too.But never in the march of time,And ne’er in mortal knowing,From history or nobler rhyme,Hath there been such constant flowing:One from mountains far away,One from glades of emerald shining,Flowing, flowing evermoreFor a delicate combining.If upon a summer’s day,When the air is blue and bracing,You for Merkland take your way,Sweet uneasy fancies chasing;You may see the famous grove—If not famous, then most surelyRipe for fame, which is but love—Where they mingle most demurely.Not in song and babbling playWhich no poet could unravel;But in tender simple way,On a bed of golden gravel.Where I sit I see them now,—Bothlin with her endless windingFrom a mountain’s purple brow,Sacred contemplation finding;In still nooks of shady rest,Gleaming greenly ’neath the holly:Youth, she says, is often blestWith a touch of melancholy.Luggie from the orient fieldsWiser is, yet hath a beauty,Which the snowy conscience yieldsTo the softened face of duty.All she does bespeaks a grace,Yet the grace hath that of sadnessWe behold in many a face,Where we had expected gladness.But when Bothlin meets her there,See the change to sudden glory!Surely such another pairNever met in classic story.I could sing for half a day,And my spirit never wearyFashioning the vernal layWith a linnet’s impulse cheery.But some night in leafy June,You the place yourself may see;When the light is in the moon,Like the passion that’s in me.
OO COOL the summer woodsOf dear Gartshore, where bloomSoft clouds of white anemonesAmong their own perfume.And clear the little brooklet,Singing an endless lay,Winding its nameless watersClose by the white highway.And here in sweet sensation,And soul-uneasy swoon,I’ve lain for many a goldenHour of a summer noon.The cushatscroonedaround meTheir murmuring amorous song;And in a brooding drowsiness,The echoes swooned along;Till all the sweet sensationsGrew into utter pain,And I was fain to wanderAll sadly home again.There have been brotherhoods in song,And human friendships true;There have been lovers unto death,Yes, and right many too.But never in the march of time,And ne’er in mortal knowing,From history or nobler rhyme,Hath there been such constant flowing:One from mountains far away,One from glades of emerald shining,Flowing, flowing evermoreFor a delicate combining.If upon a summer’s day,When the air is blue and bracing,You for Merkland take your way,Sweet uneasy fancies chasing;You may see the famous grove—If not famous, then most surelyRipe for fame, which is but love—Where they mingle most demurely.Not in song and babbling playWhich no poet could unravel;But in tender simple way,On a bed of golden gravel.Where I sit I see them now,—Bothlin with her endless windingFrom a mountain’s purple brow,Sacred contemplation finding;In still nooks of shady rest,Gleaming greenly ’neath the holly:Youth, she says, is often blestWith a touch of melancholy.Luggie from the orient fieldsWiser is, yet hath a beauty,Which the snowy conscience yieldsTo the softened face of duty.All she does bespeaks a grace,Yet the grace hath that of sadnessWe behold in many a face,Where we had expected gladness.But when Bothlin meets her there,See the change to sudden glory!Surely such another pairNever met in classic story.I could sing for half a day,And my spirit never wearyFashioning the vernal layWith a linnet’s impulse cheery.But some night in leafy June,You the place yourself may see;When the light is in the moon,Like the passion that’s in me.
OO COOL the summer woodsOf dear Gartshore, where bloomSoft clouds of white anemonesAmong their own perfume.And clear the little brooklet,Singing an endless lay,Winding its nameless watersClose by the white highway.And here in sweet sensation,And soul-uneasy swoon,I’ve lain for many a goldenHour of a summer noon.The cushatscroonedaround meTheir murmuring amorous song;And in a brooding drowsiness,The echoes swooned along;Till all the sweet sensationsGrew into utter pain,And I was fain to wanderAll sadly home again.There have been brotherhoods in song,And human friendships true;There have been lovers unto death,Yes, and right many too.But never in the march of time,And ne’er in mortal knowing,From history or nobler rhyme,Hath there been such constant flowing:One from mountains far away,One from glades of emerald shining,Flowing, flowing evermoreFor a delicate combining.If upon a summer’s day,When the air is blue and bracing,You for Merkland take your way,Sweet uneasy fancies chasing;You may see the famous grove—If not famous, then most surelyRipe for fame, which is but love—Where they mingle most demurely.Not in song and babbling playWhich no poet could unravel;But in tender simple way,On a bed of golden gravel.Where I sit I see them now,—Bothlin with her endless windingFrom a mountain’s purple brow,Sacred contemplation finding;In still nooks of shady rest,Gleaming greenly ’neath the holly:Youth, she says, is often blestWith a touch of melancholy.Luggie from the orient fieldsWiser is, yet hath a beauty,Which the snowy conscience yieldsTo the softened face of duty.All she does bespeaks a grace,Yet the grace hath that of sadnessWe behold in many a face,Where we had expected gladness.But when Bothlin meets her there,See the change to sudden glory!Surely such another pairNever met in classic story.I could sing for half a day,And my spirit never wearyFashioning the vernal layWith a linnet’s impulse cheery.But some night in leafy June,You the place yourself may see;When the light is in the moon,Like the passion that’s in me.
O