2.
The swallow summer comes again—
The owlet night resumes her reign— _10
But the wild-swan youth is fain
To fly with thee, false as thou.—
My heart each day desires the morrow;
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow;
Vainly would my winter borrow _15
Sunny leaves from any bough.
3.
Lilies for a bridal bed—
Roses for a matron’s head—
Violets for a maiden dead—
Pansies let MY flowers be: _20
On the living grave I bear
Scatter them without a tear—
Let no friend, however dear,
Waste one hope, one fear for me.
NOTES:
_5-_7 So editions 1824, 1839, Trelawny manuscript, Harvard manuscript;
As the wood when leaves are shed,
As the night when sleep is fled,
As the heart when joy is dead Houghton manuscript.
_13 So editions 1824, 1839, Harvard manuscript, Houghton manuscript.
My heart to-day desires to-morrow Trelawny manuscript.
_20 So editions 1824, 1839, Harvard manuscript, Houghton manuscript.
Sadder flowers find for me Trelawny manuscript.
_24 one hope, one fear]a hope, a fear Trelawny manuscript.
***
TO EDWARD WILLIAMS.
[Published in Ascham’s edition of the “Poems”, 1834.
There is a copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts.]
1.
The serpent is shut out from Paradise.
The wounded deer must seek the herb no more
In which its heart-cure lies:
The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower
Like that from which its mate with feigned sighs _5
Fled in the April hour.
I too must seldom seek again
Near happy friends a mitigated pain.
2.
Of hatred I am proud,—with scorn content;
Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown _10
Itself indifferent;
But, not to speak of love, pity alone
Can break a spirit already more than bent.
The miserable one
Turns the mind’s poison into food,— _15
Its medicine is tears,—its evil good.
3.
Therefore, if now I see you seldomer,
Dear friends, dear FRIEND! know that I only fly
Your looks, because they stir
Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die: _20
The very comfort that they minister
I scarce can bear, yet I,
So deeply is the arrow gone,
Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.
4.
When I return to my cold home, you ask _25
Why I am not as I have ever been.
YOU spoil me for the task
Of acting a forced part in life’s dull scene,—
Of wearing on my brow the idle mask
Of author, great or mean, _30
In the world’s carnival. I sought
Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.