Then why dost thou such feelings bring
To my sad spirit—old Guitar?
It is as if the warm sunlight
In some deep glen should lingering stay,
When clouds of storm, or shades of night,
Have wrapt the parent orb away.
It is as if the glassy brook
Should image still its willows fair,
Though years ago the woodman’s stroke
Laid low in dust their Dryad-hair.
Even so, Guitar, thy magic tone
Hath moved the tear and waked the sigh;
Hath bid the ancient torrent moan,
Although its very source is dry.
The solemn hour of midnightBreathes sweet thoughts everywhere,But most where trees are sendingTheir breezy boughs on high,Or stooping low are lendingA shelter from the sky.And there in those wild bowersA lovely form is laid;Green grass and dew-steeped flowersWave gently round her head.
How little fraught with real illOr shadowy phantoms of distress;How Spring can bring thee glory yetAnd Summer win thee to forgetDecember’s sullen time!Why dost thou hold the treasure fastOf youth’s delight, when youth is pastAnd thou art near thy prime?When those who were thy own compeers,Equal in fortunes and in years,Have seen their morning melt…
And I can sing and I can smile,Alike, while I have holiday.Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart,What thought, what scene invites thee now?What spot, or near or far,Has rest for thee, my weary brow?There is a spot, mid barren hills,Where winter howls, and driving rain;But if the dreary tempest chills,There is a light that…
And the wild bird has flown from that old gray stoneIn some warm nook a couch to find.In all the lonely landscape roundI see no light and hear no sound,Except the wind that far awayCome sighing o’er the healthy sea.
And shyly did its leaves uncloseHid in their mossy robe,But sweet was the slight and spicy smellIt breathed from its heart invisible.The rose is blasted, withered, blighted,Its root has felt a worm,And like a heart beloved and slighted,Failed, faded, shrunk its form.Bud of beauty, bonnie flower,I stole thee from thy natal bower.I was the worm…
Our open parlour window,And rose-trees wet with dew.I sat in silent musing;The soft wind waved my hair;It told me heaven was glorious,And sleeping earth was fair.I needed not its breathingTo bring such thoughts to me;But still it whispered lowly,‘How dark the woods would be!‘The thick leaves in my murmurAre rustling like a dream,And all their…
