William Lisle Bowles (1762--1850)
SONNET VIII. 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 passed [5]
Since in life's morn I carolled on thy side?
Is it that oft since then my heart has sighed
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? [10]
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.