JEAN INGELOW. 227 Sing on ! we sing in the glorious weather, Till one steps over the tiny strand, So narrow, in sooth, that still together On either brink we go hand in hand.
The beck grows wider, the hands must sever.
On either margin, our songs all done,
We move apart, while she singeth ever,
Taking the course of the stooping sun.
He prays, 'Come over' I may not follow ;
I cry, ' Return ' but he cannot come :
We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow ;
Our hands are hanging our hearts are numb.
IV.
A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer,
A little talking of outward things :
The careless beck is a merry dancer,
Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.
A little pain when the beck grows wider ;
' Come to me now, for her wavelets swell.'
'I may not cross' and the voice beside her
Faintly reacheth, though heeded well.
