Monday Sonnet: The Stream (II)

And by that spring I’ve knelt in tears,
As though a spirit; I have held the hands
Of my old body which no longer stands.
Yes, by it I’ve rehearsed my plural fears,
My card-built hopes, the tinctures of my dreams,
The gentle terror when your touch of sunlight
Dispelled my fog and burned me with its insight,
– In brief, my love for you. And now the streams
Which run downhill become a source, to earl
And priest and peasant; all, the best and worst
Sip from the bucket of the market-girl.
And as they sip your love song, bright and terse,
My love becomes the well which serves a world
While I’m the only one who dies of thirst.