TO A FRIEND,
WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE FOR HIM SOME POETRY.
I call on my muse:
She cannot refuse;
But she comes with a tear in her eye.
The wreath on her head
Is withered and dead,
And her song has turned into a sigh.
She cannot refuse;
But she comes with a tear in her eye.
The wreath on her head
Is withered and dead,
And her song has turned into a sigh.
She shows me a glass,
In which I see pass
The ghosts of my happier hours.
There fancy still lingers,
With sweet fairy fingers,
To dress them with nothing but flowers.
In which I see pass
The ghosts of my happier hours.
There fancy still lingers,
With sweet fairy fingers,
To dress them with nothing but flowers.
Then it changes anew:
'T is the future I view;
But my stricken heart faints at the sight.
'T is painted by fear,
All dismal and drear,
And hope has extinguished her light.
'T is the future I view;
But my stricken heart faints at the sight.
'T is painted by fear,
All dismal and drear,
And hope has extinguished her light.
