Oxus

From “Sohrab and Rustum” BUT the majestic river floated on, Out of the mist and hum of that low land, Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, Rejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian waste, Under the solitary moon;—he flowed Right for the polar star, past Orgunjè, Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands begin To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, And split his currents; that for many a league The shorn and parcelled Oxus strains along Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles— Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, A foiled circuitous wanderer—till at last The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and wide His luminous home of waters opens, bright And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.

Collection: 
1842
Sub Title: 
IV. Inland Waters: Highlands

More from Poet

  • April, 1860 goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, Long since, saw Byron’s struggle cease. But one such death remained to come; The last poetic voice is dumb— We stand to-day by Wordsworth’s tomb. When Byron’s eyes were shut in death, We bowed our head and held our breath. He taught us little; but...

  • “WHY, when the world’s great mind Hath finally inclined, Why,” you say, Critias, “be debating still? Why, with these mournful rhymes Learned in more languid climes, Blame our activity Who, with such passionate will, Are what we mean to be?” Critias, long since, I...

  • Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below. Now my brothers call from the bay; Now the great winds shorewards blow; Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away. This way, this way....

  • The Sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits;—on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the...

  • Hark! ah, the nightingale! The tawny-throated! Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a burst! What triumph! hark,—what pain! O wanderer from a Grecian shore, Still,—after many years, in distant lands,— Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, Old-world pain...