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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=533786" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The River Maiden</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her gown was simple woven wool,<br> But, in repayment,<br>Her body sweet made beautiful<br> The simplest raiment: <br>For all its fine, melodious curves<br> With life a-quiver<br>Were graceful as the bends and swerves<br> Of her own river. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her round arms, from the shoulders down<br> To sweet hands slender,<br>The sun had kissed them amber-brown<br> With kisses tender. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For though she loved the secret shades<br> Where ferns grow stilly,<br>And wild vines droop their glossy braids,<br> And gleams the lily, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And Nature, with soft eyes that glow<br> In gloom that glistens,<br>Unto her own heart, beating slow,<br> In silence listens: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She loved no less the meadows fair,<br> And green, and spacious;<br>The river, and the azure air,<br> And sunlight gracious. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I saw her first when tender, wan,<br> Green light enframed her;<br>And, in my heart, the Flower of Dawn<br> I softly named her. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The bright sun, like a king in state,<br> With banners streaming,<br>Rode through the fair auroral gate<br> In mail gold-gleaming. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The witch-eyed stars before him paled—<br> So high his scorning!—<br>And round the hills the rose-clouds sailed,<br> And it was morning. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The light mimosas bended low<br> To do her honour,<br>As in that rosy morning glow<br> I gazed upon her. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">My boat swung bowward to the stream<br> Where tall reeds shiver;<br>We floated onward, in a dream,<br> Far down the River. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The River that full oft has told<br> To Ocean hoary<br>A many-coloured, sweet, and old<br> Unending story: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The story of the tall, young trees,<br> For ever sighing<br>To sail some day the rolling seas<br> ’Neath banners flying. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Ocean hears, and through his caves<br> Roars gusty laughter;<br>And takes the River, with his waves<br> To roll thereafter. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But Love deep waters cannot drown;<br> To its old fountains<br>The stream returns in clouds that crown<br> Its parent mountains. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The River was to her so dear<br> She seemed its daughter;<br>Her deep translucent eyes were clear<br> As sunlit water; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And in her bright veins seemed to run,<br> Pulsating, glowing,<br>The music of the wind and sun,<br> And waters flowing. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The secrets of the trees she knew:<br> Their growth, their gladness,<br>And, when their time of death was due,<br> Their stately sadness. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gray gums, like old men warped by time,<br> She knew their story;<br>And theirs that laughed in pride of prime<br> And leafy glory; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And theirs that, where clear waters run,<br> Drooped dreaming, dreaming;<br>And theirs that shook against the sun<br> Their green plumes gleaming. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">All things of gladness that exist<br> Did seem to woo her,<br>And well that woodland satirist,<br> The lyre-bird, knew her. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there were hidden mossy dells<br> That she knew only,<br>Where Beauty born of silence dwells<br> Mysterious, lonely. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No sounds of toil their stillness taunt,<br> No hearth-smoke sullies<br>The air: the Mountain Muses haunt<br> Those lone, green gullies. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there they weave a song of Fate<br> That never slumbers:<br>A song some bard shall yet translate<br> In golden numbers. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A blue haze veiled the hills’ huge shapes<br> A misty lustre—<br>Like rime upon the purple grapes,<br> When ripe they cluster: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">’Twas noon, and all the Vale was gold—<br> An El Dorado:<br>The damask river seaward rolled,<br> Through shine and shadow. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And, gazing on its changing glow,<br> I saw, half-sighing,<br>The wondrous Fairyland below<br> Its surface lying. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There all things shone with paler sheen:<br> More softly shimmered<br>The fern-fronds, and with softer green<br> The myrtles glimmered: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And—like that Fisher gazing in<br> The sea-depths, pining<br>For days gone by, who saw Julin<br> Beneath him shining, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">With many a wave-washed corridor,<br> And sea-filled portal,<br>And plunged below, and nevermore<br> Was seen of mortal— </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So I, long gazing at the gleam<br> Of fern and flower,<br>Felt drawn down to that World of Dream<br> By magic power: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For there, I knew, in silence sat,<br> With breasts slow-heaving,<br>Illusion’s Queen Rabesquerat,<br> Her web a-weaving. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But when the moon shone, large and low,<br> Against Orion,<br>Then, as from some pale portico<br> Might issue Dian, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She came through tall tree-pillars pale,<br> A silver vision,<br>A nymph strayed out of Ida’s vale<br> Or fields Elysian. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">White stars shone out with mystic gleams<br> The woods illuming:<br>It seemed as if the trees in dreams<br> Once more were blooming. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And all beneath those starry blooms,<br> By bends and beaches,<br>We floated on through glassy glooms,<br> Down moonlit reaches. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, that was in the glad years when<br> Joys ne’er were sifted,<br>But I on wilder floods since then<br> Have darkly drifted. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet, River of Romance, for me<br> With pictures glowing,<br>Through dim, green fields of Memory<br> Thou still art flowing. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And still I hear, thy shores along,<br> All faintly ringing,<br>The notes of ghosts of birds that long<br> Have ceased their singing. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Was she, who then my heart did use<br> To touch so purely,<br>A mortal maiden—or a Muse?<br> I know not, surely. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But still in dreams I see her stand,<br> A fairer Flora,<br>Serene, immortal, by the strand<br> Of clear Narora.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Victor+James+Daley">Victor James Daley</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=533786" data-title="The River Maiden de Victor James Daley" data-description="Her gown was simple woven wool,
 But, in repayment,
Her body sweet made beautiful
 The simplest raiment: 
For all its fine, melodious curves
 With life a-quiver
Were graceful as the bends and swerves
 Of her own river. 

Her round arms, from the s..."></div>
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