Page:Poems by Ingelow, Jean.djvu/25

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Divided.
5
iv.A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, A little talking of outward things:The careless beck is a merry dancer, Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.
A little pain when the beck grows wider; 'Cross to me now—for her wavelets swell:''I may not cross'—and the voice beside her Faintly reacheth, though heeded well.

No backward path; ah! no returning; No second crossing that ripple's flow:'Come to me now, for the west is burning; Come ere it darkens;'—'Ah, no!; ah, no!'
Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching— The beck grows wider and swift and deep:Passionate words as of one beseeching— The loud beck drowns them; we walk, and weep.
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