Poems By Mr. Polwhele. In three volumes |
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JANUARY 1, 1805. |
Poems | ||
236
JANUARY 1, 1805.
The years that are past, and can never return,
In idea I fain would call back;
But how faithless is Memory! In anger I spurn
At her false, her dim-shadowy track.
In idea I fain would call back;
But how faithless is Memory! In anger I spurn
At her false, her dim-shadowy track.
At length less obscure, my life's morning again
Seems to open, with rays of relief—
Yet oppos'd to the present, it gives me new pain;
And my anger is chang'd into grief!
Seems to open, with rays of relief—
Yet oppos'd to the present, it gives me new pain;
And my anger is chang'd into grief!
Poems | ||