Poems About Water

Pure stream, in whose transparent waveMy youthful limbs I wont to lave;No torrents stain thy limpid source,No rocks impede thy dimpling courseDevolving from thy parent lakeA charming maze thy waters makeBy bowers of birch and groves of pineAnd edges flower’d with eglantine.

Still on thy banks so gaily greenMay numerous herds and flocks be seen,And lasses chanting o’er the pail,And shepherds piping in the dale,And ancient faith that knows no guile,And industry embrown’d with toil,And hearts resolved and hands preparedThe blessings they enjoy to guard.

On the banks of Allan Water,When the sweet spring-time did fall,Was the miller's lovely daughter,Fairest of them all.

For his bride a soldier sought her,And a winning tongue had he,On the banks of Allan Water,None so gay as she.

On the banks of Allan Water,When brown autumn spread his store,There I saw the miller's daughter,But she smiled no more.

For the summer grief had brought her,And the soldier false was he,On the banks of Allan Water,None so sad as she.

On the banks of Allan Water,When the winter snow fell fast,Still was seen the miller's daughter,Chilling blew the blast.

But the miller's lovely daughter,Both from cold and care was free;On the banks of Allan Water,There a corse lay she.

Alas, the moon should ever beamTo show what man should never see!I saw a maiden on a stream,And fair was she!

I stayed awhile, to see her throwHer tresses back, that all besetThe fair horizon of her browWith clouds of jet.

I stayed a little while to viewHer cheek, that wore, in place of red,The bloom of water, tender blue,Daintily spread.

I stayed to watch, a little space,Her parted lips if she would sing;The waters closed above her faceWith many a ring.

And still I stayed 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!

Come down at dawn from windless hillsInto the valley of the lake,Where yet a larger quiet fillsThe hour, and mist and water makeWith rocks and reeds and island boughsOne silence and one element,Where wonder goes surely as onceIt wentBy Galilean prows.

Moveless the water and the mist,Moveless the secret air above,Hushed, as upon some happy tryst

Oh! listen to the water mill, through all the livelong day,As the clicking of the wheels wears hour by hour away;How languidly the autumn wind does stir the withered leavesAs in the fields the reapers sing, while binding up their sheaves!A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast,"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main,The sickle nevermore will reap the yellow garnered grain;The rippling stream flows on--aye, tranquil, deep and still,But never glideth back again to busy water mill;The solemn proverb speaks to all with meaning deep and vast,"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

I flung me round him,I drew him under;I clung, I drown’d him,My own white wonder!...

Father and mother, Weeping and wild, Came to the forest, Calling the child, Came from the palace, Down to the pool, Calling my darling, My beautiful!

"Annan Water's wading deep,And my Love Annie's wondrous bonny;And I am laith she should wet her feet,Because I love her best of ony."

He's loupen on his bonny gray,He rade the right gate and the ready;For all the storm he wadna stay,For seeking of his bonny lady.

And he has ridden o'er field and fell,Through moor, and moss, and many a mire;His spurs of steel were sair to bide,And from her four feet flew the fire.

Pause, stranger--whence you lightly treadBill Carr's immoral part has fled.For him no heart of woman burned,But all the rivers' heads he turned.Alas! he now lifts up his eyesIn torment and for water cries,Entreating that he may procureOne drop to cool his parched McClure!

I heard--'twas on a morning, but when it was and where,Except that well I heard it, I neither know nor care--I heard, and, oh, the sunlight was shining in the blue,A little water singing as little waters do.

At Lechlade and at Buscot, where Summer days are long,The tiny rills and ripples they tremble into song;And where the silver Windrush brings down her liquid gems,There's music in the wavelets she tosses to the Thames.

The eddies have an air too, and brave it is and blithe;I think I may have heard it that day at Bablockhythe;And where the Eynsham weir-fall breaks out in rainbow sprayThe Evenlode comes singing to join the pretty play.

But where I heard that music I cannot rightly tell;I only know I heard it, and that I know full well:I heard a little water, and, oh, the sky was blue,A little water singing as little waters do.

NATURE'S fair daughter, Beautiful water!O, hail it with joy, with echoes of mirth,Wherever it sparkles or ripples on earth. Down from the mountain, Up from the fountain,Ever it cometh, bright, sparkling and clear,From the Creator, our pathway to cheer. Nobly appearing, O'er cliffs careering,Pouring impetuously on to the sea,Chanting, unceasing, the song of the free.