 | Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton |  |
27
SOLITUDE.
Sweet solitude!—The Frenchman's happy play
Of wit I here with graver thought implete:—
Yes, sweet is Solitude, if but we may
The Lord take with us, unto Whom to say
That Solitude is sweet.
Of wit I here with graver thought implete:—
Yes, sweet is Solitude, if but we may
The Lord take with us, unto Whom to say
That Solitude is sweet.
But He'll not only smile and answer ‘Yea’;—
Ere long He'll lead us to a place of ships,
And He will make us go aboard that day,
To send us from dear Solitude away,
Even though it be with whips.
Ere long He'll lead us to a place of ships,
And He will make us go aboard that day,
To send us from dear Solitude away,
Even though it be with whips.
Why be grieved that I your converse
Now and then refuse?
Or to say nought for a awhile
In your presence choose?
Pleasant are your voices,
Dearest ones, to me,
More pleasant, yea, than Sabbath-bells
At holy evening be:
But nearer still my yearning soul
Would have your voices dear;
Be silent, therefore, that your thoughts
I may the better hear.
Now and then refuse?
Or to say nought for a awhile
In your presence choose?
Pleasant are your voices,
Dearest ones, to me,
More pleasant, yea, than Sabbath-bells
At holy evening be:
But nearer still my yearning soul
Would have your voices dear;
Be silent, therefore, that your thoughts
I may the better hear.
28
I love to gaze upon your face,
The meaning there to read,
Dear One, in whose heart's embrace
Is privilege indeed;
But why be so sad-hearted,
Why feel mortified,
If I leave you now and then
In lonely place to hide?
The meaning there to read,
Dear One, in whose heart's embrace
Is privilege indeed;
But why be so sad-hearted,
Why feel mortified,
If I leave you now and then
In lonely place to hide?
From hill and vale they call me,
From star, and moss, and stone;
I cannot list those voices wise
Unless I be alone.
When long I keep away therefrom,
The life within me dies;
With them conversing, soon upsprings
New vigour to mine eyes.
Again my step is firm; again
I breathe a manly breath:
Marvel not then I go to hear
What each still Speaker saith.
Not even your presence, Sweet, shall win my soul
To be in love with death.
From star, and moss, and stone;
I cannot list those voices wise
Unless I be alone.
When long I keep away therefrom,
The life within me dies;
With them conversing, soon upsprings
New vigour to mine eyes.
Again my step is firm; again
I breathe a manly breath:
Marvel not then I go to hear
What each still Speaker saith.
Not even your presence, Sweet, shall win my soul
To be in love with death.
| Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton | |