Classic Poem

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.

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.