Confessions—penned with many a deep drawn sigh.—
Hopes—like the dove—with but one resting place!
How many a feeling, long—too long—represt,
Like autumn flowers, here opened out at last!
How many a vision of the lonely breast
Its cherish'd radiance on these leaves hath cast?
And ye, pale violets, whose sweet breath hath driven
Back on my soul the dreams I fain would quell;
To whose faint perfume such wild power is given,
To call up visions—only loved too well;—