Sunday up the River

MY love o'er the water bends dreaming;
   It glideth and glideth away:
She sees there her own beauty, gleaming
   Through shadow and ripple and spray.

O tell her, thou murmuring river,
   As past her your light wavelets roll,
How steadfast that image for ever
   Shines pure in pure depths of my soul.

poem by James Thomson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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