By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow <br />Through thy sequestered dell unto the sea, <br />At sunny noon, I will appear to thee: <br />Not troubling the still fount with drops of woe, <br />As when I last took leave of it, and thee, <br />But gazing up at thee with tranquil brow, <br />And eyes full of life's early happiness, <br />Of strength, of hope, of joy, and tenderness. <br />Beneath the shadowy tree, where thou and I <br />Were wont to sit, studying the harmony <br />Of gentle Shakspeare, and of Milton high, <br />At sunny noon I will be heard by thee; <br />Not sobbing forth each oft-repeated sound, <br />As when I last faltered them o'er to thee, <br />But uttering them in the air around, <br />With youth's clear, laughing voice of melody. <br />On the wild shore of the eternal deep, <br />Where we have strayed so oft, and stood so long <br />Watching the mighty waters' conquering sweep, <br />And listening to their loud triumphant song, <br />At sunny noon, dearest! I'll be with thee: <br />Not as when last I lingered on the strand, <br />Tracing our names on the inconstant sand; <br />But in each bright thing that around shall be: <br />My voice shall call thee from the ocean's breast, <br />Thou'lt see my hair in its bright, showery crest, <br />In its dark, rocky depths, thou'lt see my eyes, <br />My form shall be the light cloud in the skies, <br />My spirit shall be with thee, warm and bright, <br />And flood thee o'er with love, and life, and light.<br /><br />Frances Anne Kemble<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-promise-34/
