The
lightest wave of thought shall lisp,
The fancy’s tenderest eddy wreathe,
The slightest air of song shall breathe
To
make the sullen surface crisp.
And
look thy look, and go thy way,
But blame not thou the winds that make
The seeming-wanton ripple break,
The
tender-pencil’d shadow play.
Beneath
all fancied hopes and fears
Ay me, the sorrow deepens down,
Whose muffled motions blindly drown
The
bases of my life in tears.