The anemone’s night-boding flower,
Has sunk its pale head on the ground.
‘Tis thus the world’s keenness hath torn,
Some mild heart that expands to its blast,
‘Tis thus that the wretched forlorn,
Sinks poor and neglected at last.–
The world with its keenness and woe,
Has no charms or attraction for me,
Its unkindness with grief has laid low,
The heart which is faithful to thee.
The high trees that wave past the moon,
As I walk in their umbrage with you,
All declare I must part with you soon,
All bid you a tender adieu!–
Then Harriet! dearest farewell,
You and I love, may ne’er meet again;
These woods and these meadows can tell
How soft and how sweet was the strain.–
APRIL, 1810.