Plays and poems | ||
404
[O! would that Fortune might bestow on me]
O! would that Fortune might bestow on meOne hour secluded from the prying world!
So that the crowd through which my heart is hurled,
Like a poor wreck upon a stormy sea,
Might rage afar; and under some kind lea,
Bowered with the creeping woodbine, and impearled
With the fresh gems of morning, I might be
For once alone with Nature and with thee.
For unto Nature's ear I would resign
The struggling secrets which my bosom fill—
The o'erfraught mystery of my own sweet ill,
In loving thee beyond the prudent line
Marked out by selfish philosophic skill—
To Nature's ear, dear lady, and to thine.
Plays and poems | ||