 | Plays and poems |  |
362
[I sit beneath the sunbeams' glow]
I sit beneath the sunbeams' glow,
Their golden currents round me flow,
Their mellow kisses warm my brow,
But all the world is dreary.
The vernal meadow round me blooms,
And flings to me its faint perfumes;
Its breath is like an opening tomb's—
I'm sick of life, I'm weary!
Their golden currents round me flow,
Their mellow kisses warm my brow,
But all the world is dreary.
The vernal meadow round me blooms,
And flings to me its faint perfumes;
Its breath is like an opening tomb's—
I'm sick of life, I'm weary!
The mountain brook skips down to me,
Tossing its silver tresses free,
Humming like one in revery;
But, ah! the sound is dreary.
The trilling blue-birds o'er me sail,
There 's music in the faint-voiced gale;
All sound to me a mourner's wail—
I'm sick of life, I'm weary.
Tossing its silver tresses free,
Humming like one in revery;
But, ah! the sound is dreary.
The trilling blue-birds o'er me sail,
There 's music in the faint-voiced gale;
All sound to me a mourner's wail—
I'm sick of life, I'm weary.
The night leads forth her starry train,
The glittering moonbeams fall like rain,
There 's not a shadow on the plain;
Yet all the scene is dreary.
The sunshine is a mockery,
The solemn moon stares moodily;
Alike is day or night to me—
I'm sick of life, I'm weary.
The glittering moonbeams fall like rain,
There 's not a shadow on the plain;
Yet all the scene is dreary.
The sunshine is a mockery,
The solemn moon stares moodily;
Alike is day or night to me—
I'm sick of life, I'm weary.
I know to some the world is fair,
For them there 's music in the air,
And shapes of beauty everywhere;
But all to me is dreary.
I know in me the sorrows lie
That blunt my ear and dim my eye;
I cannot weep, I fain would die—
I'm sick of life, I'm weary.
For them there 's music in the air,
363
But all to me is dreary.
I know in me the sorrows lie
That blunt my ear and dim my eye;
I cannot weep, I fain would die—
I'm sick of life, I'm weary.
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