Classic Poem

O spring, upon your bank I lean
And watch the clouds that drift,
As, guided by a hand unseen,
Within your wave they shift.

There comes a cloud, it smiles as red
As budding roses might;
A short farewell, and it is fled
With unreturning flight.

Yet here 's another, still more fair
And radiant than the last!
But, no less transient, through the air
It hurries and has passed.

Another! This one hastes not though,
It plods along the blue;
But cold it is and dark, and lo!
My spring, it darkens you.

Then as I look, my fancies roam,
Till on my soul they dwell;
How many a golden cloud has come
And bidden it farewell, —

How many a gloomy cloud has sent
Deep night across its day,
They came so quickly, ah! but went
So slowly thence away.

Right well I understand the lore
Of how their shadows roll;
They are but thin clouds passing o'er
The mirror of my soul.

The mirror's hue must needs depend
On yonder clouds' behest,
O spring, when will your bubblings end,
When will your waves have rest?