I said, ‘Now that I am
Walking by her sweet sister, Yealm,
Shall I not see the Erme?
A seven years' term
Is it not long enough
To stay from that brown stream I love?’

But as I stoop to drink
The Erme slips by me while I think,
Although no trace it wears
Of those seven years
And so far from the sea,
This stream might now taste salt to me.