Perhaps some evening yet, at peace in some old town, I'll drink my troubles down and die with less regret, -- time owes me such a debt. If once my fortunes mend shall I go breast the North, or, having gold to spend, dwell in the vine-clad earth? Ah, what is thinking worth? 'Tis but an idle sin. If I became once more the wanderer of yore, never would the green inn unlock for me the door. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT CASTLE WOOD by EMILY JANE BRONTE LINES TO A MOVEMENT IN MOZART'S E-FLAT SYMPHONY by THOMAS HARDY OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY by JOHN BEAUMONT THE DEAD OF THE WILDERNESS by CHAIM NACHMAN BIALIK SEEN IN TWILIGHT by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 39. FAREWELL TO JULIET (1) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |