Thy realm of thought is drear and cold—
The world is colder yet.
And thou hast pleasures, too, to share
With those who come to thee,—
Balms floating on thy mountain air,
And healing sights to see.
How often, where the slopes are green
On Jaman, hast thou sate
By some high chalet-door, and seen
The summer day grow late;
And darkness steal o'er the wet grass
With the pale crocus starred,
And reach that glimmering sheet of glass
Beneath the piny sward,—
Lake Leman's waters, far below;
And watched the rosy light
Fade from the distant peaks of snow;
And on the air of night
Heard accents of the eternal tongue
Through the pine branches play,—
Listened, and felt thyself grow young!
Listened, and wept— Away!
Away the dreams that but deceive!
And thou, sad guide, adieu!
I go, fate drives me; but I leave
Half of my life with you.
We, in some unknown Power's employ,
Move on a rigorous line;
Can neither, when we will, enjoy,
Nor, when we will, resign.
