And borne with theirs, my proudest thoughts do seem Bald at the best and dim: a barren gleam Among the immortal stars, and faint and brief As northlight flitting in the dreary north. What have thy dreams, a vague prospective worth? An import imminent? or dost thou deem Thy life so fair that thou wouldst set it forth Before the day? or art thou wise in grief, Has fruitful sorrow swept thee with her wing? Today I heard a sweet voice carolling In the woodlot paths, with laugh and careless cry Leading her happy mates: apart I stepped, And while the laugh and song went lightly by, In the wild bushes I sat down and wept. |