Sunday up the River
|←In the Train|| Sunday up the River by
Extracted from Quiller-Couch's Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900
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.