 | The Garden of Florence; and Other Poems |  |
132
SONNET.
Art thou now sitting by thine evening fire,
Reading our natural Shakspeare; art thou playing
Lone melodies;—or listening to the saying
Of thy dear sisters, or thy placid sire;—
Or do thine eyes, loving the heavens, admire
The very gentle moon that seems a-maying
Mid the bright stars?—I think I see thee straying
In thy fawn-colour'd and most sweet attire!—
Reading our natural Shakspeare; art thou playing
Lone melodies;—or listening to the saying
Of thy dear sisters, or thy placid sire;—
Or do thine eyes, loving the heavens, admire
The very gentle moon that seems a-maying
Mid the bright stars?—I think I see thee straying
In thy fawn-colour'd and most sweet attire!—
I know not what delights thee—where thou art—
But white Simplicity doth lead with care
Thy pleasures:—oh! might I but linger where
Thou lingerest,—and take a gentle part
In music,—or thy walks, thy books;—and share
In the divine enjoyments of thy heart!
But white Simplicity doth lead with care
133
Thou lingerest,—and take a gentle part
In music,—or thy walks, thy books;—and share
In the divine enjoyments of thy heart!
| The Garden of Florence; and Other Poems | |