 | Poems (1867) |  |
177
THE BRIDGE.
NOON.
We lingered on the rustic bridge,
We saw the pebbles in the stream
Below us, clear in amber light
Of noonday, flash and gleam;
Afar, the yellow flag-flowers caught
A glory from the flitting beam,
And all was still and fair, methought,
And golden as a dream.
We saw the pebbles in the stream
Below us, clear in amber light
Of noonday, flash and gleam;
Afar, the yellow flag-flowers caught
A glory from the flitting beam,
And all was still and fair, methought,
And golden as a dream.
Oh, might this hour not pass away!
Oh, were it given to us, not lent!
And might we, framed within it, stay,
A breathing picture of content!
And hear the babbling waters run,
And hear the distant stock-dove coo,
And dream that in the world were none
But only I and you!
Oh, were it given to us, not lent!
178
A breathing picture of content!
And hear the babbling waters run,
And hear the distant stock-dove coo,
And dream that in the world were none
But only I and you!
| Poems (1867) | |