On The Rhine

Vain is the effort to forget.     Some day I shall be cold, I know,     As is the eternal moon-lit snow     Of the high Alps, to which I go:     But ah, not yet! not yet!     Vain is the agony of grief.     Tis true, indeed, an iron knot     Ties straitly up from mine thy lot,     And were it snapt, thou lovst me not!     But is despair relief?     Awhile let me with thought have done;     And as this brimmd unwrinkled Rhine     And that far purple mountain line     Lie sweetly in the look divine     Of the slow-sinking sun;     So let me lie, and calm as they     Let beam upon my inward view     Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue,     Eyes too expressive to be blue,     Too lovely to be grey.     Ah Quiet, all things feel thy balm!     Those blue hills too, this rivers flow,     Were restless once, but long ago.     Tamd is their turbulent youthful glow:     Their joy is in their calm.