Complaining flow the waters slow
Along the valley green and low;
The lilies dight in virgin white
Float fragrant in the ardent light,
And to the gossip ripples say,
“It is the Day!—is’t not the Day?
When comes the bridal train this way?”
Yon amethystine hill-top kist
By lingering enamored mist,
Hears in the sky warm zephyrs sigh
To wooing clouds that dally by;
The wandering whispers seem to say,
“Is’t not the Day?—it is the Day!
Why comes no bridal train this way?”
Forlorn of mood, by love pursued,
A youth laments in solitude;
The brown dove’s eyes soft sympathize
With him and to her mate she cries,
“What can the glad espousals stay?
It is the Day!—is’t not the Day?
Yet comes no bridal train this way.”
O laggard moon, arise full soon
And swim to night’s auspicious noon,
The star-sea ride and swiftly glide
From eventide to eventide,—
Whirl through a month, that I may say
“It is the Day! It is the Day!
Now comes the bridal train this way!”