109
SONNET.
I envy not the traveller's delight,
When he looks on Italia's loveliness,
Or the Swiss mountains rise before his sight;
The view to me would be but loneliness,
Remembering me that I was far away
(Like to a leaf, borne from its natural spray)
From my own dwelling. It does seem most strange,
What happiness it can be thus to range:
Let others roam this world of wonders through—
Theirs be each beauty of the earth and sea;
The flower gemm'd green, the narrow arch of blue,
Around my home, will be enough for me.
I cannot envy him, whose footsteps rove
At distance from the dear ones of his love.
