Grisedale Beck

My gentle stream, with constant smile and bright,
I miss thy loving looks and winding ways,
Thy murmurous accents glad of yesternight,
Sweet as from earnest lips the words of praise;
Where art thou, friend? I hear the impetuous noise
Of hurried passion, the unmeaning roar
Of some wild torrent: it is not thy voice!
Nor doth thy wave respect its wonted shore,
But arrowy-straight in frantic fury springs.
I grieve that I e'er knew thee : happy heart
And noble, that with either moods hath part:
Mine hath not; but with timid love it clings
Conscious of weakness: and it doth so lean
To some boy-friends grown hard and headstrong men.