The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Water! The Water!
The Water! The Water!
The Water! the Water!
The joyous brook for me,
That tuneth, through the quiet night,
Its ever-living glee.
The Water! the Water!
That sleepless merry heart,
Which gurgles on unstintedly,
And loveth to impart
To all around it some small measure
Of its own most perfect pleasure.
The Water! the Water!
The gentle stream for me,
That gushes from the old gray stone,
Beside the alder tree.
The Water! the Water!
That ever-bubbling spring
I loved and looked on while a child,
In deepest wondering,—
And asked it whence it came and went,
And when its treasures would be spent.
The Water! the Water!
The merry, wanton brook,
That bent itself to pleasure me,
Like mine own shepherd crook.
The Water! the Water!
That sang so sweet at noon,
And sweeter still at night, to win
Smiles from the pale proud moon,
And from the little fairy faces
That gleam in heaven's remotest places.
The Water! the Water!
The dear and blessed thing
That all day fed the little flowers
On its banks blossoming.
The Water! the Water!
That murmured in my ear,
Hymns of a saint-like purity,
That angels well might hear;
And whisper in the gates of heaven,
How meek a pilgrim had been shriven.
The Water! the Water!
Where I have shed salt tears,
In loneliness and friendliness,
A thing of tender years.
The Water! the Water!
Where I have happy been,
And showered upon its bosom flowers
Culled from each meadow green,
And idly hoped my life would be
So crowned by love's idolatry.
The Water! the Water!
My heart yet bums to think
How cool thy fountain sparkled forth,
For parched lip to drink.
The Water! the Water!
Of mine own native glen;
The gladsome tongue I oft have heard,
But ne'er shall hear again;
Though fancy fills my ear for aye
With sounds that live so far away!
The Water! the Water!
The mild and glassy wave,
Upon whose gloomy banks I've longed[1]
To find my silent grave.
The Water! the Water!
Oh bless'd to me thou art;
Thus sounding in life's solitude,
The music of my heart,
And filling it, despite of sadness,
With dreamings of departed gladness.
The Water! the Water!
The mournful pensive tone,
That whispered to my heart how soon
This weary life was done.
The Water! the Water!
That rolled so bright and free,
And bade me mark how beautiful
Was its soul's purity;
And how it glanced to heaven its wave,
As wandering on it sought its grave.
- ↑ Upon whose broomy banks I've longed.—MS. copy.