Frances Anne Kemble

(27 November 1809 - 15 January 1893 / London, England)

Lines. - Poem by Frances Anne Kemble

AFTER A SUMMER'S WALK, IN WHICH MY COMPANION BENT OVER A CLEAR SPRING WHICH GREW TURBID WITHOUT ANY APPARENT CAUSE.


Serene and pure the fountain flowed,
Reflecting Heaven's holiest blue,
When over it thine image bowed—
And the clear water turbid grew.
I saw no cloud upon thy brow,
To darken o'er the bright wave's rest,
Say, could it mirror, thinkest thou,
Some evil hid within thy breast?
Were thy lips guileless, thy heart true,
When by the fairy well they bent?
Whence came the darkness, then, that drew
Its veil across the element?
Yet tell me not—by that lone well
'Tis like we ne'er shall stand again,
Then let the troubled fountain's spell
A mystery still to me remain.
Let me not know what I should mourn,
Distrust of joy, and doubt of thee,
Nor this sweet summer day return
Clouded upon my memory:
For o'er the surface of my soul,
Thine image too hath cast a shade,
And stirred beyond my own control
The depths, that make myself afraid.


Comments about Lines. by Frances Anne Kemble

There is no comment submitted by members..



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?



Poem Submitted: Monday, September 6, 2010



[Report Error]