Sunday Up the River
MY love o’er the water bends dreaming;
It glideth and glideth away:
She sees there her own beauty, gleaming
Through shadow and ripple and spray.
O tell her, thou murmuring river,
As past her your light wavelets roll,
How steadfast that image for ever
Shines pure in pure depths of my soul.
Autres oeuvres par James Thomson...
Stanzas Written by Thomson on the Blank Leaf of a Copy of His 'seasons’ Sent by Him to Mr. Lyttleton, Soon After the Death of His Wife
Go, little book, and find our Fri… Who Nature and the Muses loves, Who cares the public virtues blend With all the softness of the grove… A fitter time thou canst not choos…
