ITCHIN, when I behold thy banks again, <br />Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast, <br />On which the self-same tints still seem to rest, <br />Why feels my heart the shiv'ring sense of pain? <br />Is it, that many a summer's day has past <br />Since, in life's morn, I carol'd on thy side? <br />Is it, that oft, since then, my heart has sigh'd, <br />As Youth, and Hope's delusive gleams, flew fast? <br />Is it that those, who circled on thy shore, <br />Companions of my youth, now meet now more? <br />Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend <br />Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart, <br />As at the meeting of some long-lost friend, <br />From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part.<br /><br />William Lisle Bowles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/viii-to-the-river-itchin-near-winton/
