Poems (Becker)/By the River

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BY THE RIVER.
SLOW the mist riseth
 O'er each distant hill,
Like some fearful phantom,
 So solemn and still.

Now higher it riseth,
 Gray robes floating free;
It crosseth the river,
 And cometh to me.

My heart beats in sorrow,
 With dull throbs of pain;
For the joy of days past,
 Comes never again.

In the sun of to-morrow
 The mist will depart;
But sorrow abideth
 With my troubled heart.

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