III. THE FIRE SERMON

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.

Two of those Nymphs, mean-while, two Garlands bound,
Of freshest Flowers, which in that Mead they found,
The which presenting all in trim Array,
Their snowy Foreheads therewithal they crown'd,
Whilst one did sing this Lay,
Prepar'd against that Day,
Against that Bridal-day, which was not long:
Sweet Thames run softly till I end my Song.

Ye gentle Birds, the World's fair Ornament,
And Heaven's Glory, whom this happy Hour
Doth lead unto your Lovers blissful Bower,
Joy may you have, and gentle Hearts Content
Of your Love's Complement:
And let fair Venus, that is Queen of Love,
With her Heart-quelling Son upon you smile;
Whose Smile they say, hath Vertue to remove
All Love's Dislike, and Friendship's faulty Guile
For ever to assoil.
Let endless Peace your stedfast Hearts accord,
And blessed Plenty wait upon your Bord;
And let your Bed with Pleasures chaste abound,
That fruitful Issue may to you afford,
Which may your foes confound,
And make your Joys redound
Upon your Bridal-day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my Song.

E. Spenser