My soul is sick of nightingale and rose,
The perfume and the darkness of the grove;
I weary of the fevers and the throes,
And all the enervating dreams of love.
At morn I love to hear the lark, and rove
The meadows, where the simple daisy shows
Her guiltless bosom to the skies above—
My soul is sick of nightingale and rose.
The afternoon is sweet, and sweet repose,
But let me lie where breeze-blown branches move.
I hate the stillness where the sunbeams doze,
The perfume and the darkness of the grove.
I love to hear at eve the gentle dove
Contented coo the day's delightful close.
She sings of love and all the calm thereof,—
I weary of the fevers and the throes.
I love the night, who like a mother throws
Her arms round hearts that throbbed and limbs that strove,
As kind as Death, that puts an end to woes
And all the enervating dreams of love.
Because my soul is sick of fancies wove
Of fervid ecstasies and crimson glows;
Because the taste of cinnamon and clove
Palls on my palate—let no man suppose
My soul is sick.
Cosmo Monkhouse.
RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.
My day and night are in my lady's hand;
I have no other sunrise than her sight;
For me her favour glorifies the land;
Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.