Yet weary, weary, still I roam;
I’ve tried by turns each pathway bright;
My sun goes down, and all is night;
I grope my way in sad despair;
Where is the better country, where?
I catch at every beaming ray
That shines upon my weary way;
I’m taken captive by a flower,
That blooms and withers in an hour;
And yet, whene’er my bosom tries