But the time is fast advancing;
From the heaven of its glancing
I must rend my heart:
Treacherous Time is fast advancing,
And I must depart.
Ah! the pain the parting brings me!
As a serpent's fang it stings me,
Leaves me almost dead:
Ah! the faintness that it brings me
With the future fled!
'Tis a darkened night of sorrow,
Waiting for the light of morrow;
Thus it seems to me:
'Tis a night of pain and sorrow
While I want for thee.
Two long weeks of weary waiting,
All my happiness belating;
When will they be o'er?
Two long weeks of woful waiting
E'er I see thee more.
Sonnet to Shelley.
Divinely strong and beautiful in soul!
With more than melody of mortal voice!
The free thy spirit's majesty extol,
When Liberty is made thy Muse's choice.
And then how pure and pleasing is thy song,
When Beauty—goddess of thy mind—its theme!
But most to thee those sweet, sad strains belong,
Where Truth we find through musing's fitful dream:
And trace Uncertainty and how it gropes
Through this and time to come with faltering feet,
And vanity of Pleasure, and the Hopes
Which Fear enfeebles and the Fates defeat:
Strains oft as if at thy once-sung desire
The wild west wind had ta'en thee for its lyre.
Hope.
Oh! why should sorrow wound the heart,
And rob the soul of rest?
Why is misfortune's bitter dart
Allowed to pierce the breast?