I cannot make thee. Oh! I might have given
Birth to creations of far nobler thought;
I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven,
Things not of such as die! But I have been
Too much alone! A heart whereon to lean,
With all these deep affections that o’erflow
My aching soul, and find no shore below;
An eye to be my star; a voice to bring
Hope o’er my path like sounds that breathe of spring?
These are denied me—dreamt of still in vain.