With weary steps I loiter on, Tho' always under alter'd skies The purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone. No joy the blowing season gives, The herald melodies of spring, But in the songs I love to sing A doubtful gleam of solace lives. If any care for what is here Survive in spirits render'd free, Then are these songs I sing of thee Not all ungrateful to thine ear. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SLUG IN WOODS by EARL (EARLE) BIRNEY A MOTHER'S LOVE by JAMES MONTGOMERY FAREWELL TO ARMS by GEORGE PEELE LET NO CHARITABLE HOPE by ELINOR WYLIE WHITE FOR MOURNING by AL-FATA AL-KAFIF ON THE NEW YEAR by JANE BOWDLER |