Pure lie the broad-leaved lilies on the tide,
  With glowing petals in the midst, that rest
  Like the gold shower on Danae’s lovely breast;
And the tall rushes cluster on the side. 
  Ho! sweet-lipp’d lily, thou must be my prize—­
Thus shall I pluck thee in thy beauty’s pride! 
  Fail’d—­all too steadily my shallop hies,
                      Swift floating down the River.

The stream fast widens, and upon the shore
  Rise busy hamlets ’mid the falling woods,
  Filling their shorn and broken solitudes,
With labour’s clamour ever more and more: 
  No more, no more in dreams of love all day,
Rich set in music from the forests hoar,
  Now gaily speeds my untoss’d bark away,
                      Swift floating down the River.

Let me take oar, and turn mine eager prow,
  Back to the quiet waveless source again,
Where no harsh sound breaks on the dreaming brain,
And winds steal softly round the careless brow,—­
  Swift as a dream my tiny bark hath gone,
And stoutly though I ply the oar, yet now
  My weary shallop still goes sadly on,
                      Swift floating down the River.

Ah! never more for me—­Ah! never more
  Return those blessed morning hours again;
  The sun beats hotly on my throbbing brain,
And no cool shade waves friendly from the shore: 
  My feeble oar dips powerless utterly,
And onward, onward, though I struggle sore,
  Still goes my bark towards the surging sea,
                      Swift floating down the River.

Welcome art thou, O cool and fragrant eve! 
  Welcome art thou, though night pursue thee fast
  With thee the burning and the toil roll past,
And there is time to gaze back and to grieve. 
  Hoarse ocean-murmurs fall upon mine ears,
And round me now prophetic billows heave,
  As on I go, out-looking through salt tears,
                      Swift floating down the River,
                      Swift floating to the Sea.

ORPHEUS.

About the land I wander, all forlorn,
About the land, with sorrow-quenched eyes;
Seeking my love among the silent woods;
Seeking her by the fountains and the streams;
Calling her name unto lone mountain tops;
Sending it flying on the clouds to heaven. 
I drop my tears amid the dews at morn;
I trouble all the night with prayers and sighs,
That, like a veil thick set with golden stars,
Hideth my woe, but cannot silence it;
Yet never more at morning, noon, or night,
Cometh there answer back, Eurydice,
Thy voice speaks never more, Eurydice;
O far, death-stricken, lost Eurydice!

Hear’st thou my weary cries, Eurydice? 
Hearing, but answering not from out the past,
Wrapp’d in thy robe of everlasting light,
Round which the accents flutter faintingly,
Like larks slow panting upward to the sun? 
Or roll the golden sands of day away,
And never more the voice of my despair
Trickles among them o’er thine unmoved ear,
Though every grove doth multiply the sound,
And all the land sigh forth “Eurydice”?