The wounds, the weariness, of life.

[24]

And losing that forgetful sphere,

For some less troubled world I sigh,

If not divine, more free, more clear,

Than this poor, soil'd humanity.

But when, in trances of the night,

Wakeful, my lonely bed I keep,

And linger at the gate of Sleep,

Fearing, lest dreams deny me light;

Her image comes into the gloom,

With her pale features moulded fair,

Her breathing beauty, morning bloom,

My heart's delight, my tongue's despair.

With loving hand she touches mine,

Showers her soft tresses on my brow,

And heals my heart, I know not how,

Bathing me with her looks divine.

She beckons me; and I arise;

And, grief no more remembering,

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