 | Poems |  |
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MELANCHOLY.
There is a kind of soothing sorrow
Which vulgar minds can never know;
There is a feeling that can borrow
Its wildest sweetest thrill from woe.
Which vulgar minds can never know;
There is a feeling that can borrow
Its wildest sweetest thrill from woe.
'Tis felt at that lone hour of night,
When sadly smiles the silver orb,
When witching gleams of shadowy light
The sighs of misery absorb.
When sadly smiles the silver orb,
When witching gleams of shadowy light
The sighs of misery absorb.
There is a tear of doubtful birth,
By sorrow claim'd yet joy resembling,
Though unallied to ruder mirth,
'Tis still 'twixt grief and pleasure trembling.
By sorrow claim'd yet joy resembling,
Though unallied to ruder mirth,
'Tis still 'twixt grief and pleasure trembling.
That feeling with its foster tear,
Though human earth-worms deem it folly,
Is yet to pensive fancy dear,
And poets call it Melancholy.
Though human earth-worms deem it folly,
Is yet to pensive fancy dear,
And poets call it Melancholy.
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