I sit beside a little shadowy stream,
And try to tell in words my thoughts 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-forgotten 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 waters hurry them away.