28
SONNET,WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS AND SORROW.
In meditative mood I lie
Upon my restless couch of pain;
To close my weary eyes I try,
And balmy sleep I court in vain.
Upon my restless couch of pain;
To close my weary eyes I try,
And balmy sleep I court in vain.
For she, alas! too often flies
From the sad wretch, a prey to woe,
To light upon the beaming eyes
Of those whose breasts with pleasure glow.
Oh! seldom round my aching head
Her poppy wreaths she deigns to twine,
Or on my unclos'd lids to shed
One drop of Lethe's dew benign.
Each morning dawns upon my grief,
And night, alas! brings no relief.
From the sad wretch, a prey to woe,
To light upon the beaming eyes
Of those whose breasts with pleasure glow.
Oh! seldom round my aching head
Her poppy wreaths she deigns to twine,
Or on my unclos'd lids to shed
One drop of Lethe's dew benign.
Each morning dawns upon my grief,
And night, alas! brings no relief.
