158
OLD LETTERS.
II.
Oft have I bent my gaze
Adown our Life's steep edge with eye-balls dim
And thirsting soul, a-weary of the day's
Hot parching dust and glare; this Well is deep,
Too seldom rise the waters to its brim,
And I had nought to draw with! oft in sleep
I felt them touch my very lips, and flow
All o'er my forehead and my hands, but, lo!
I waked and thirsted; looking down, I knew
Each pebble lying at the base, that drew
A glimmer from the sunbeam; round the rim
I knew each flower, each forked fern that through
The stone did thrust its tongue, each moss that grew
Far down its cool and slippery sides—I knew
All but the water's freshness.
Adown our Life's steep edge with eye-balls dim
And thirsting soul, a-weary of the day's
Hot parching dust and glare; this Well is deep,
Too seldom rise the waters to its brim,
And I had nought to draw with! oft in sleep
I felt them touch my very lips, and flow
All o'er my forehead and my hands, but, lo!
I waked and thirsted; looking down, I knew
Each pebble lying at the base, that drew
A glimmer from the sunbeam; round the rim
I knew each flower, each forked fern that through
The stone did thrust its tongue, each moss that grew
Far down its cool and slippery sides—I knew
All but the water's freshness.
Now I yearn
No more in vain, no longer need I stoop
So wistful o'er the well, for like an urn
Is thy pure soul to me, wherein I scoop
The waters as I list, and still return.
No more in vain, no longer need I stoop
So wistful o'er the well, for like an urn
Is thy pure soul to me, wherein I scoop
The waters as I list, and still return.
