Faint are the colours[1] in that darkened room;
When the wind lifts the curtain's crimson fold,
Amid a rich obscurity of gloom
Are seen the rainbow gems, the carved gold.
And on a table near, a little flower
Droops in a vase as white as sculptured snow;
It was her favourite in her childhood's bower,
The Marvel of Peru;—she loves it now.
The perfumed atmosphere around is filled
With many odors—summer's scented spoil:
The fragrant waters from sweet woods distilled,
Spices, and cinnamon, and precious oil.
Oh, life of pleasant languor and repose!
Like some frail plant that languishes at noon;
The dark-eyed beauty need not envy those
To whom such charmed lot were earth's best boon.
What is the world we live in but a strife
Of vanity and envy, hate and fear?
That what we so miscall our social life
Is one great error—sullen, vast and drear.
A happier lot is Woman’s thus confined
To one deep love, and one sweet solitude;
Oh! what availeth to awake the mind,
Whose higher struggles are so soon subdued?
- ↑ Landon's original spelling, colors in the American version
