We two walk till the purple dieth,
  And short dry grass under foot is brown,
But one little streak at a distance lieth
  Green, like a ribbon, to prank the down.

II.

Over the grass we stepped unto it,
  And God, He knoweth how blithe we were! 
Never a voice to bid us eschew it;
  Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!

Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it,
  We parted the grasses dewy and sheen: 
Drop over drop there filtered and slided
  A tiny bright beck that trickled between.

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us,
  Light was our talk as of faery bells—­
Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us,
  Down in their fortunate parallels.

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over,
  We lapped the grass on that youngling spring,
Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover,
  And said, “Let us follow it westering.”

III.

A dappled sky, a world of meadows;
  Circling above us the black rooks fly,
’Forward, backward:  lo, their dark shadows
  Flit on the blossoming tapestry—­

Flit on the beck—­for her long grass parteth,
  As hair from a maid’s bright eyes blown back;
And lo, the sun like a lover darteth
  His flattering smile on her wayward track.

Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather,
  Till one steps over the tiny strand,
So narrow, in sooth, that still together
  On either brink we go hand in hand.

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever,
  On either margin, our songs all done,
We move apart, while she singeth ever,
  Taking the course of the stooping sun.

He prays, “Come over”—­I may not follow;
  I cry, “Return”—­but he cannot come: 
We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow;
  Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb.

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.

V.

A yellow moon in splendor drooping,
  A tired queen with her state oppressed,
Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping,
  Lies she soft on the waves at rest.