< Page:Poems by Ingelow, Jean.djvu
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Divided.
5
iv.
A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer,
A little talking of outward things:
The careless beck is a merry dancer,
Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.
A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer,
A little talking of outward things:
The careless beck is a merry dancer,
Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.
A little pain when the beck grows wider;
'Cross to me now—for her wavelets swell:'
'I may not cross'—and the voice beside her
Faintly reacheth, though heeded well.
'Cross to me now—for her wavelets swell:'
'I may not cross'—and the voice beside her
Faintly reacheth, though heeded well.
No backward path; ah! no returning;
No second crossing that ripple's flow:
'Come to me now, for the west is burning;
Come ere it darkens;'—'Ah, no!; ah, no!'
No second crossing that ripple's flow:
'Come to me now, for the west is burning;
Come ere it darkens;'—'Ah, no!; ah, no!'
Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching—
The beck grows wider and swift and deep:
Passionate words as of one beseeching—
The loud beck drowns them; we walk, and weep.
The beck grows wider and swift and deep:
Passionate words as of one beseeching—
The loud beck drowns them; we walk, and weep.
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