Thou, O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still,
The eve is thine which even now drops down,
To carry peace or care to human will,
And in a misty veil enfolds the town.
While...
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Should dream that eagles and insects, streams and woods, |
Robed in a silken robe that shines and shakes, |
I'm like some king in whose corrupted veins |
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Fair is the sun when first he flames above, |
There shall be couches whence faint odours rise, |
Not all the beauties in old prints vignetted, |
"To thy wife's eyes I'll bring their long-lost gleam, |
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Poor Muse, alas, what ails thee, then, to-day? |