The Old Willow Stream: A Poem

THE OLD WILLOW STREAM. {For the Improvement Era.) We stood on the bridge o'er the old willow stream That wound through the green, sunny fields like a dream, From mountain to meadow, with laughter and glee, 'Till it spread its clear waters like glass in the sea. And she was as fair as the lillies that blow; And her soul was as pure as a drift of the snow. A lovelier maiden than she, never won The caress of the wind, or the kiss of the sun. How I envied him, then, as he lingered to share With the breezes that played in her soft golden hair. I had watched the warm sun in her heart slowly rise, 'Till the morning of love brightly dawned in her eyes; And its pure, sacred light, from its earliest ray, Entered into my life, like a beautiful day. On her rose-tinted cheek stood a trembling tear, Like the dew on a flower, in the spring of the year. But I kissed it away. A reluctant good-bye Was wrung from my heart, with a tear and a sigh. So we parted. But far down the shadowy lane I paused to look back, full again and again, Where she lifted and waved her white hand to and fro, As the lilies that wave when the gentle winds blow With the spring that came out of its sweet scented bowers With a smile, and a song, and a lap full of flowers. She stood on the bridge, 'till the shadowy forms Of the evening had borne her away in their arms. And oh, what a loneliness came with the night, As she faded away like an angel of light; My heart full of longing, too heavy to wade Through the waters of sorrow, returned to the maid : Though seas roll between us, in hope and in dream, I still live on the banks of the old willow stream. Theo. E. Curtis. Salt Lake City, Utah.