gothic poetry

lived by the river-side
one by one, like leaves from a tree
doubtless i remember still
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
so fallen
love has been sung a thousand ways
pushing out, struggling vainly
she might have known it in the earlier spring
i have seen the proudest stars
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
see, they return
a flying word from here and there
over the river, on the hill