Stay not here, my weeping maid,
'Tis a world in glooms arrayed.
Wishes there, all wants supply,
Wants of hand, and heart, and eye;
Labor is not known—that thorn
Pricks not there, at night or morn,
As it goads frail mortals here,
With its pain, and toil, and fear;
Shadows typical and fair,
Fill the woods, the fields, the air,