O thou with whom I dallied
  Through all the hours of noon,—
Sweet water-boy, more pallid
  Than any watery moon;
Above thy body turning
  White lily-buds were strewn:
Alas, the silver morning,
  Alas, the golden noon!

Alas, the clouds of sorrow,
  The waters of despair!
I sought thee on the morrow,
  And never found thee there.
Since first I saw thee splendid,
  Since last I called thee fair,
My happy ways have ended
  By waters of despair.

The pool that was thy dwelling
  I hardly knew again,
So black it was, and swelling
  With bitter wind and rain.