The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival With a biographical sketch |
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[These weeping skies, these weeping skies] |
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 | The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival |  |
[These weeping skies, these weeping skies]
These weeping skies, these weeping skies,
They weep so much, that I weep too;
And every thing, like Mary's eyes,
Around, above, below, looks blue.
Such days as these will never do,
My Muse can never soar again;
Her wings are wetted through and through,
She tries to fly, but all in vain.
They weep so much, that I weep too;
And every thing, like Mary's eyes,
Around, above, below, looks blue.
Such days as these will never do,
My Muse can never soar again;
Her wings are wetted through and through,
She tries to fly, but all in vain.
183
Love brought a wreath, a laurel wreath,
And it was steeped in fog, not dew;
The little urchin drooped beneath,
And gladly down his burden threw.
“The Sylphs have sent a wreath to you.”
He laughed as he his errand told.
“What makes it look so very blue?”
Says Love, “It 's only touched with mould.”
And it was steeped in fog, not dew;
The little urchin drooped beneath,
And gladly down his burden threw.
“The Sylphs have sent a wreath to you.”
He laughed as he his errand told.
“What makes it look so very blue?”
Says Love, “It 's only touched with mould.”
I twined the wreath around my brow,
And felt my brain grow numb and chill;
If I had worn the wreath till now,
My heart had been for ever still.
Oh! skies that weep so much will kill
The Muses, and their servant, Love;
Their home is on the sunny hill,
Where naught is blue but heaven above.
And felt my brain grow numb and chill;
If I had worn the wreath till now,
My heart had been for ever still.
Oh! skies that weep so much will kill
The Muses, and their servant, Love;
Their home is on the sunny hill,
Where naught is blue but heaven above.
| The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival | |