Maurice Thompson

Bubble, bubble, flows the stream Like an old tune through a dream.

She throws a kiss, and bids me run In whispers sweet as roses’ breath; I know I can not win the race, And at the end, I know, is death.

When Spring is old, and dewy winds Blow from the south, with odors sweet, I see my love, in shadowy groves, Speed down dark aisles on shining feet.