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151
THE WELL.
Like this cold and mossy fount
Which forgets the sun at noon,
Sees just stars enough to count,
And a vision of the moon,—
Which forgets the sun at noon,
Sees just stars enough to count,
And a vision of the moon,—
Where the little stems and leaves,
Round the edges of the well,
Quiver, while the water grieves,
At the tale it has to tell,—
Round the edges of the well,
Quiver, while the water grieves,
At the tale it has to tell,—
Where your bright face, peering through
Two soft clouds of falling hair,
Sees a dim and troubled view
Of its own clear beauty there,—
Two soft clouds of falling hair,
Sees a dim and troubled view
Of its own clear beauty there,—
152
Such my heart is; in it lies
Your dear image all day long,
But 'tis stirred with fears and sighs,
And its dimness does you wrong.
Your dear image all day long,
But 'tis stirred with fears and sighs,
And its dimness does you wrong.
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