To one who has been long in city pent, ‘Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, – to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart’s content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel, – an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet’s bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by: E’en like the passage of an angel’s tear That falls through the clear ether silently.
