Oft have I search'd the weary world in vain, And all the rest find love and peace of heart, But I can only find a sluggish pain, As one by one the sombre days depart, Presenting many a toy and useless gain: Sweet Friend, my longing, wheresoe'er thou art, O come at length! out of thine ambush start! The light on field and hill begins to wane. O dreaming fool (I said), have done, have done! How should a miracle be wrought for thee?— When lo, joy came, like verdure to a tree That, long time stretching wintry arms aloft, Replieth to a day of vernal sun With multitudes of leaflets green and soft. |