Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;

And daily, with unwilling feet,

I tread, like thee, the crowded street;

But, unlike me, when day is o’er,

Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar;

Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,

And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

I would that in such wings of gold,

I could my weary heart up-fold;