228 JEAN INGELOW. 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!'
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
v.
A yellow moon in splendour drooping,
A tired queen with her state oppressed,
Low by rushes and swordgrass stooping,
Lies she soft on the waves at rest.
The desert heavens have felt her sadness ; Her earth will weep her some dewy tears ; The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, And goeth stilly as soul that fears.
We two walk on in our grassy places On either marge of the moonlit flood, With the moon's own sadness in our faces, Where joy is withered, blossom and bud.
VI. A shady freshness, chafers whirring, A little piping of leaf-hid birds ; A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds.
