Classic Poem

O stream that flowest down the dell,
For me too deep and wide,
Between the house wherein I dwell,
And one the other side,
With windows that, in afternoon,
Thence cast a glitt'ring light,
And here I see, below the moon,
Its walling softly white,

Thy nearest bridge is far. The rook
O'erhead, that wants it not,
May haply see its arches look
Each one a little dot.
So I go furlongs round the road,
For yards as birds may fly,
To reach the door of that abode,
So far away, though nigh.

At whiles I wish the heat of day
Would dry thy waves to steam,
Or that a stinging frost would lay
Thick ice upon thy stream;
Or that the rising wind would blow
This poplar, for a bridge,
Athwart thy waves that I might go
Thereby to yonder ridge.

When I can win myself a boat
For hopeful love to row,
It white shall o'er thy water float
And spotless, to and fro—
And white shall be its bladed oars
To dash thy waves to foam,
As I between thy sunder'd shores
Shall pull me out or home.