 | Orval, or The Fool of Time |  |
“Page suy moy.”
Follow, my Page, where the green grass embosoms
The enamell'd season's freshest-fallen dew:
Then home, and my still house with handfuls strew
Of frail-lived April's newliest-nurtured blossoms.
The enamell'd season's freshest-fallen dew:
Then home, and my still house with handfuls strew
Of frail-lived April's newliest-nurtured blossoms.
Take from the wall, now, my song-tunèd lyre.
Here will I sit, and charm out the sweet pain
Of a dark eye whose light hath burn'd my brain,
The unloving loveliness of my desire!
Here will I sit, and charm out the sweet pain
Of a dark eye whose light hath burn'd my brain,
The unloving loveliness of my desire!
And here mine ink, and here my papers, place:
A hundred pages white, whereon to trace
A hundred words of desultory woe:
Words which shall last like graven diamonds sure,
That some day hence a future race may know,
And ponder on, the pain that I endure.
A hundred pages white, whereon to trace
A hundred words of desultory woe:
Words which shall last like graven diamonds sure,
That some day hence a future race may know,
And ponder on, the pain that I endure.
| Orval, or The Fool of Time | |