William Lisle Bowles (Уильям Лайл Боулз)
Sonnet 8. To the River Itchin, near Winton
Itchin, when I, behold thy banks again, Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast, On which the self-same tints still seem to rest, Why feels my heart the shiv'ring sense of pain? Is it, that many a summer's day has past Since, in life's morn, I carol'd on thy side? Is it, that oft, since then, my heart has sigh'd, As Youth, and Hope's delusive gleams, flew fast? Is it that those, who circled on thy shore, Companions of my youth, now meet no more? Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart, As at the meeting of some long-lost friend, From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part.
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