Sunday up the River by James Thomson

MY love o'er the water bends dreaming;
It glideth and glideth away:
She sees there her own beauty, gleaming
Through shadow and ripple and spray.

O tell her, thou murmuring river,
As past her your light wavelets roll,
How steadfast that image for ever
Shines pure in pure depths of my soul.

by James Thomson

Other poems by 'James Thomson'

A Poem Sacred to the Memory of Sir Isaac Newton

Fareweel, ye bughts

Farewell to Ravelrig


Hymn on Solitude

In the Train

Rule Britannia

The Seasons: Winter

The Vine

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