 | Landscapes in verse |  |
28
Seems wrested from its course:—Strange shudders seize
My lab'ring frame, and in her fate, my own
Glooms in dark characters upon my brow:
Cleone feels the change;—and in her eye,
Of unaffected sympathy the shrine,
Where nature's genuine incense sweetly flows
In scorn of art—her imitation vile—
Springs the soft tear that hurries to her lip,
On which it hangs like dew-drops on the rose.
I'll kiss it off.
| Landscapes in verse | |