As of old the river is singing,
The woods are thick and green,
The wind is swaying the branches,
That the light may fall between.
From the grass at my feet are peeping
The sweet forget-me-nots,
Their azure heads are hanging
With the dews of their own pure thoughts.
There is no change in the river,
No change in the green of the tree,
Yet a something that cannot be spoken
Is resting on all that I see.
As of old the river is flowing,
And summer is heard in its tide;
I pace along the footpath,
But a dead man walks by my side.
There is no whisper spoken,
I hear no footsteps fall;
But I know in my heart he is with me
By the silence that settles on all.
In that silence a strange sad longing
For what we can never attain
Wells up, as a streamlet rises
In a sudden fall of the rain.
There is no whisper spoken,
No sound of human speech,
But spirit is touching spirit,
 And each is looking at each.
His with the full, clear vision
Of those who have done with the years;
Mine, with the shadow of sorrow,
And the mists of human tears.
Up and down by the river
That flows and will always flow;
Up and down in the sunlight,
With footsteps sad and slow;
Up and down in the sunlight,
That falls on all that I see;
My heart alive with its longings,
And a dead man walking with me.