In a Troubled Stream

The story of loving goes on,
A confused cloud in the stream,
A troublous nothing that makes
The world but a passing dream.

High deeds of the great dead gone by
Clamber but to the sill;
Love light as an errant breeze
Unsettles her locks and her will.

She stands in her chamber unwearied,
Her soul poised at a thought:
“A thousand days shall I stand here,
Stirred in my innermost part.”

A thousand days are passing by,
The moon unravels again;
Her eyes are fixed upon nothing,
Her eyes cold as the wind.

Her soul has seen her love's own soul,
The world but a passing dream;
She waits for the veil of years
To fall in the troubled stream.

And there beyond the world's wracked cares,
Past waters and words and deeds,
There stands steady her love's own soul,
His eyes cold as the wind.