 | Hours at Naples, and Other Poems |  |
305
ART THOU CONTENT?
I love thee as my soul, I love thee so
That 'tis a fate, a fever, and a grief,
That 'tis to me a burthen and a woe,
And not to love thee, were a blest relief.
That 'tis a fate, a fever, and a grief,
That 'tis to me a burthen and a woe,
And not to love thee, were a blest relief.
I love thee as I love—no! not my Soul,
As it is tainted and debased on Earth;
But as I trust, when Earth's clouds from it roll,
I yet may love it, called to loftier birth!
As it is tainted and debased on Earth;
But as I trust, when Earth's clouds from it roll,
I yet may love it, called to loftier birth!
I love thee thus—oh! more, yet more, I love—
Art thou content, sweet Ruler of my lot?
Loved, worshipped, prized, adored, all things above—
Art thou content?—if thou art, I am not!
Art thou content, sweet Ruler of my lot?
Loved, worshipped, prized, adored, all things above—
Art thou content?—if thou art, I am not!
| Hours at Naples, and Other Poems | |