OUT of a world of pain,
   In a trance that may well be death,
I drift on a barge thro' the fields again
   Wherein I first drew breath.
And the river cools my face
   And the river-scented flowers,
Water-mint and tall loose-strife
   Bring me memories deep as life
From all my vanished hours,
   And a white wraith-figure of you —
White arms, white hands, white breast —
   Drifts by my side, and alone we two
Drink of the river of rest.
   And the wind sighs in the reeds —
Gently — a little wind —
   And lightly and sadly the gossamer-seeds
Float away o'er the river-meads,
   Blown by that little wind,
And cool airs touch our faces
   And your wraith-like hollow eyes
Grow soft with the leafy places,
   And the low-breathed reedy sighs;
And on and on we drift,
   Where the cattle stand in ranks,
And the swallows flit and skim
   Over green and mossy banks;
Till the willows droop like ghosts
   And the twilight fills the plain

And the rooks in solemn hosts
   Gather and drift like rain.
Then at last I feel and know
   That all my memories
As they wavered and flickered in endless flow
   Were premonitions sent long ago
Of nothing else than this!
   Than that I with you by my side,
Wraith-like but lovely still,
   Should follow the river and drift and glide,
Past forest and forest — past hill and hill;
   Till the river we follow grows one with the sea.
Ah, the pain again — it will never be!