26
SELF-COMMUNION.
Till, centred in itself alone,
It wastes its blighted powers.
It wastes its blighted powers.
Oh, I have known a wondrous joy
In early friendship’s pure delight,—
A genial bliss that could not cloy—
My sun by day, my moon by night.
Absence, indeed, was sore distress,
And thought of death was anguish keen,
And there was cruel bitterness
When jarring discords rose between;[1]
In early friendship’s pure delight,—
A genial bliss that could not cloy—
My sun by day, my moon by night.
Absence, indeed, was sore distress,
And thought of death was anguish keen,
And there was cruel bitterness
When jarring discords rose between;[1]
- ↑ Cancelled reading:
When angry passions rose between
