I tremble when with look benign
Thou tak'st my offered hand in thine,
Lest passion-breathing words of mine
The charm should break:
And friendly smiles be forced to fly,
Like soft reflections of the sky,
Which, when rude gales are sweeping by,
Desert the lake.

Of late I saw thee in a dream,
The day-star poured his hottest beam,
And thou, a cool refreshing stream,
Didst brightly run:
The trees where thou wert pleased to flow,
Swelled out their flowers, a glorious show,
While I, too distant doomed to grow,
Pined in the sun.

By no life-giving moisture fed,
A wasted tree, I bowed my head,
My sallow leaves and blossoms shed
On earth's green breast:
And silent prayed the slumbering wind,
The lake, thy tarrying place, might find,
And waft my leaves, with breathings kind,
There, there, to rest.