A fringe of rushes, one green line Upon a faded plain; A silver streak of water-shine, Above, tree-watchers twain. It was our resting-place awhile, And still, with backward gaze,...
My youth was passing, Sire, whilst you among The cradle-wrappings slept; my morning-song Sung o'er your pillow. Winds of heaven have thrown Us both, since then, on heights apart and lone....