The clouds are gathering in their western dome
Deep-drenched with sunlight, as a fleece with day
While I with baffled effort still pursue
And track these waters toward their mountain-home
In vain—though cataract, and mimic foam,
And island spots, round which the streamlet threw
Its sister-arms, which joyed to meet anew,
Have lured me on, and won me still to roam;
Till now, coy nymph, unseen thy waters pass,
Or faintly struggle through the twinkling grass—
And I, thy founts unvisited, return.
Is it that thou art revelling with thy peers?
Or dost thou feed a solitary urn,
Else unreplenished, with thine own sad tears?