THE WATERS OF SORGA

How often, flying to my dim retreat,

From others and if may be my own soul,

I saw the slow tears beat my breast and feet

And touch the tender grass! How often whole

Soft Summer days, O Life! your own days, sweet

And long and gay, I trod by ways of dole,

Seeking my high delight, whom Death’s deceit

Had seized on where his lethal waters roll.

Goddess or nymph, in some immortal guise,

I saw her come from Sorga’s clearest deeps

To sit upon the bank; with hungry eyes

I watched her tread the field-flowers where they creep,

Which as from mortal lady’s foot did rise;

And to her eyes a grief for me did leap.