yet, sweeter songs than those are locked up in his breast, not to be sung:
The summer sweetness fills my heart with songs
I cannot sing, with loves I cannot speak.
When harsh necessity imprisons him in the city he sighs:
I think the sight of fields and shady lanes
Would ease my heart of pains.
But what contradictions poets have ever found in their experiences! The ministrants of joy but wring the cry of pain from the yearning heart. Lovely May is harder to endure, in exile, than gloomy December. The city’s discordant cries may be endured, bringing neither grief nor joy, while a bird’s carol may be exquisite torture:
The woodlark’s tender warbling lay,
Which flows with melting art,
Is but a trembling song of love
That serves to break my heart.
Musing on whatever scene, the poet’s thoughts are tinged with that sadness which to every sensitive nature has a sweetness in it:
The sun went down in beauty,
While I stood musing alone,
Stood watching the rushing river
And heard its restless moan;
