To the River

Whom have you lost, river? In what childhood hour?
For whom do you rise, wailing, flower by flower?
Thrashing, thrashing at this world's weary feet,
In heart-torn voice you cry—where is my sweet?
Your white locks, wild with separation's grief,
Bring waters flowing from infinity's reef.
You writhe and fall upon the ruthless stone—
Even stone cracks at that piteous moan.
Such sorrow fills your breast, O river's shore!
What cruel burden makes you ache so sore!
No day, no night—the same song, same refrain,
That restless anguish, soul-piercing pain!
Across your body, melancholy's breeze,
While tears come, go, in endless mysteries.
Your gray shadow on the leafless tree,
Tears gather close to night's dark reverie.
Pale sun, pale moon; even in bird-song's throat
A mournful music strikes the plaintive note!
Under your sorrow's weight the world stands still,
Sky and wind sway with grief's image, chill.
Each wave's hundred wild, tumultuous sighs
Bear burning breath of all your agonies.
With these, the tears of every earthly eye—
This heart grows restless with your endless cry!
I long to hold you in sorrow's embrace,
To keep you bound in pain's fierce, tender grace.
Let me sing your song, take up your strain—
All life shall tremble with your love's sweet pain.