The hills slope down to the valley, the streams run down to the sea, <br />And my heart, my heart, O far one! sets and strains towards thee. <br />But only the feet of the mountain are felt by the rim of the plain, <br />And the source and soul of the hurrying stream reach not the calling main. <br /> <br />The dawn is sick for the daylight, the morning yearns for the noon, <br />And the twilight sighs for the evening star and the rising of the moon. <br />But the dawn and the daylight never were seen in the self-same skies, <br />And the gloaming dies of its own desire when the moon and the stars arise. <br /> <br />The Springtime calls to the Summer, ``Oh, mingle your life with mine,'' <br />And Summer to Autumn 'plaineth low, ``Must the harvest be only thine?'' <br />But the nightingale goes when the swallow comes, ere the leaf is the blossom fled; <br />And when Autumn sits on her golden sheaves, then the reign of the rose is dead. <br /> <br />And hunger and thirst, and wail and want, are lost in the empty air, <br />And the heavenly spirit vainly pines for the touch of the earthly fair. <br />And the hills slope down to the valley, the streams run down to the sea, <br />And my heart, my heart, O far one! sets and strains towards thee.<br /><br />Alfred Austin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/longing-91/
