The River

I know thou art not that brown mountain-side, Nor the pale mist that lies along the hills And with white joy the deepening valley fills; Nor yet the solemn river moving wide Into that valley, where the hills abide But whence those morning clouds on noiseless wheels Shall lingering lift and, as the moonlight steals From out the heavens, so into the heavens shall glide. I know thou art not this gray rock that looms Above the water, fringed with scarlet vine; Nor flame of burning meadow; nor the sedge That sways and trembles at the river's edge. But through all these, dear heart! to me there comes Some melancholy, absent look of thine.