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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
THE SOUL'S WASTE.
1
Couldst thou but keep each noble thoughtThou fling'st in words away,
With quiet then thy night were fraught,
With glory crowned thy day.
But thou too idly and too long
From bower to bower hast ranged;
And Nature, trifled with, not loved,
Will be at last avenged.
2
With pleasure always, ne'er with awe,Thou gazest on the skies:
And from thy lips all zephyrs draw
Their amplest harmonies.
122
When every warbled tone,
That brims our heart with joy, shall yield
No sweetness to thine own.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |