Wild honey from various thyme :: :: University of Virginia Library

All common joys of common days we miss,
As those banned Afric rocks where travellers trace
Continuously the tortured lightning's race,
That feel but storm and wind—nor any kiss
Of dew at secret in their crevices,
With leaf or shooting fibre or the grace
And tinct of verdure creeping o'er the place;
But keep their station where the lightning is,
Exposed and evermore to be assailed.
Thus, O my God, the life about the head
I love—my life! Thy levin hath not failed
To sear, and then hot-breathed to sear again.
So of a face most gentle it is said
That all its record is the brand of pain.