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327
A LAMENT.
Go, number the clouds which the winds rend apart,
Count the raindrops which fall o'er the desolate leaves;
They are light to the sorrows that visit the heart,
They are few to the tears which no solace relieves.
Count the raindrops which fall o'er the desolate leaves;
They are light to the sorrows that visit the heart,
They are few to the tears which no solace relieves.
Alas! for the man who devotedly twines
Every chord of his heart round one object alone;
Yet must watch o'er her life as it hourly declines,
That life which is dearer by far than his own!
Every chord of his heart round one object alone;
Yet must watch o'er her life as it hourly declines,
That life which is dearer by far than his own!
Oh! teach me, great Nature, less feeling to keep;
Strike the heart with some barrenness yet undescried:
For affection is sorrow,—to love is to weep,—
Man never placed fondness on aught—but it died!
Strike the heart with some barrenness yet undescried:
For affection is sorrow,—to love is to weep,—
Man never placed fondness on aught—but it died!
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