Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/326

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The moss bank's fresh embroiderie, With fairy favours starr'd, Seems made the summer haunt to be   Of melancholy bard. Fair as thou art, thou wilt be food For many a thought of pain; For who can gaze upon thy flood, Nor wish it to remain The same pure and unsullied thing Where heaven's face is as clear Mirror'd in thy blue wandering As heaven's face can be here. Flowers fling their sweet bonds on thy breast, The willows woo thy stay, In vain,—thy waters may not rest, Their course must be away.