THE WATER LADY.[7] [Footnote 7: Suggested, according to Hood's son, by a water-color drawing by Keats's friend Severn.] Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see!-- I saw a maiden on a stream, And fair was she! I staid awhile, to see her throw Her tresses black, that all beset The fair horizon of her brow With clouds of jet. I staid a little while to view Her cheek, that wore in place of red The bloom of water, tender blue, Daintily spread. I staid to watch, a little space, Her parted lips if she would sing; The waters closed above her face With many a ring. And still I staid a little more, Alas! she never comes again! I throw my flowers from the shore, And watch in vain. I know my life will fade away, I know that I must vainly pine, For I am made of mortal clay, But she's divine! AUTUMN. The Autumn is old, The sere leaves are flying;-- He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;-- Old Age, begin sighing! The vintage is ripe, The harvest is heaping;-- But some that have sow'd Have no riches for reaping;-- Poor wretch, fall a-weeping! The year's in the wane, There is nothing adorning, The night has no eve, And the day has no morning;-- Cold winter gives warning. The rivers run chill, The red sun is sinking, And I am grown old, And life is fast shrinking; Here's enow for sad thinking! I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,-- The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heav'n Than when I was a boy. THE POET'S PORTION. What is a mine--a treasury--a dower-- A magic talisman of mighty power? A poet's wide possession of the earth. He has th' enjoyment of a flower's birth Before its budding--ere the first red streaks,-- And Winter cannot rob him of their cheeks. Look--if his dawn be not as other men's! Twenty bright flushes--ere another kens The first of sunlight is abroad--he sees Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees, And opes the splendid fissures of the morn.