Sport of each wind, and tost on every wave;
Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true,
On thought’s light pinion still shall fly to you,
And still, bright waters! in your current lave.
SONNET 181.
“Onde acharei lugar taō apartado.”
Where shall I find some desert-scene so rude,
Where loneliness so undisturb’d may reign,
That not a step shall ever there intrude
Of roving man, or nature’s savage train—