I sit beside a little, shadowy stream
And try to tell in words my thought of you.
It is in vain.
The running waters quiver, beckon, gleam,
The running water glitters through my brain,
The irises are sweet with half-remembered rain,
Their dark heads bend beneath their diadems of dew —
One petal falls, and like a little boat
Clings drowning where the yellow rushes float;
The waters, with soft fingers, draw it down.
So, one by one, my petal fancies drown,
And all my unborn words
Fall and flutter and sink, like wounded birds.
Cool waters close above them, silver-grey,
The running water hurries them away.