Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/1035

 For it grows and it grows, as though leaping Up higher the more one is thinking; And ever its tunes go on sinking More poignantly into the ears: Yea, so blessèd and good seems that fountain, Reach'd after dry desert and mountain, You shall fall down at length in your weeping And bathe your sad face in the tears.

Then alas! while you lie there a season And sob between living and dying, And give up the land you were trying To find 'mid your hopes and your fears; —O the world shall come up and pass o'er you, Strong men shall not stay to care for you, Nor wonder indeed for what reason Your way should seem harder than theirs.

But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses, Nor caring to raise your wet tresses And look how the cold world appears— O perhaps the mere silences round you— All things in that place Grief hath found you— Yea, e'en to the clouds o'er you drifting, May soothe you somewhat through your tears.

You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes Your face, as though some one had kiss'd you; Or think at least some one who miss'd you Had sent you a thought,—if that cheers; Or a bird's little song, faint and broken, May pass for a tender word spoken: —Enough, while around you there rushes That life-drowning torrent of tears.