212
Sonnet 50.
Geště čnj ten domek! poljbenj.
Yet, yet, I see thee thro' the distance peeping,
Mine own sweethome, and fling renew'd adieus—
Onward, my steps, O onward! lest my weeping
O'erpower me with the thoughts of what I lose.
I see thy golden doors—awake or sleeping,
Thou land of peace—like sunbeams midst the dews:
Vain dreams! for I thro' darksome woods am creeping—
I have no mansion, but the clouds' wild hues.
Turn not, O turn not back—shine, day-star, shine!
Ye birds of heaven pour out your loudest songs—
Lift, thou fierce storm, that awful voice of thine—
Shout mountains, shout! what pang to man belongs,
Man may bear bravely—I resolve—and yet
Turn back—and then I feel my eyes are wet.