The Poet

Deep sunk in thought, he sat beside the river —
Its wave in liquid lapses glided by,
Nor watch'd, in crystal depth, his vacant eye
The willow's high o'er- arching foliage quiver.
From dream to shadowy dream returning ever,
He sat, like statue, on the grassy verge;
His thoughts, a phantom train, in airy surge
Stream'd visionary onward, pausing never.
As autumn wind, in mountain forest weaving
Its wondrous tapestry of leaf and bower,
O'ermastering the night's resplendent flower
With tints, like hues of heaven, the eye deceiving —
So, lost in labyrinthine maze, he wove
A wreath of flowers; the golden thread was love.