How rich the wave, in front, imprest
With evening-twilight's summer hues,
While, facing thus the crimson west,
The boat her silent path pursues!
And see how dark the backward stream,
A little moment past so smiling!
And still perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Some other loiterer beguiling.

Such views the youthful bard allure;
But heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colours shall endure
Till peace go with him to the tomb.
--And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in sorrow!
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
O Thames! that other bards may see,
As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river! come to me.
O glide, fair stream! for ever so,
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
Till all our minds for ever flow
As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Vain thought! Yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen
The image of a poet's heart,
How bright, how solemn, how serene!
Such heart did once the poet bless,
Who, pouring here a later ditty,
Could find no refuge from distress
Save in the milder grief of pity.

Remembrance! as we glide along,
For him suspend the dashing oar,
And pray that never child of Song
May know his freezing sorrows more.
How calm! how still! the only sound,
The dripping of the oar suspended!
The evening darkness gathers round
By virtue’s holiest powers attended.

'Don't cry, don't cry for the moon!'
Her restive heart would croon;
Her restive heart of delights and fears,
Of laughter tangled amid her tears,
'Don't cry for the moon!'

For she wanted the moon herself; wanted
The shimmering moon of wealth and love,
The moon of rank and fame that haunted
The heavens above her.
She wanted the moon, and so would sing
To any, with odd caprice, 'Don't cry!
Don't cry for the moon!'—betraying
Her own appeaseless sigh.

'Don't cry, don't cry for the moon!'
It broke her peace at last.
It broke her mind and it broke her heart,
And she died in a place that is set apart
For the moon-criers—who do not know
That the moon's for none—only its glow;
Only its even radiance, cast
On all, with aimless art.