206
And there, God wot, in summer eve,
To list the small bird's song,
Were med'cine to the heart that breaks,
Like mine, in prison strong.
The sun, in idle wantonness,
Shines in this dungeon cold,
But his bright glance, through Silverwood,
I never shall behold!
I ne'er shall see each broad leaf gleam
Like banner-flag of gold.
It pains me, this o'ermastering light,
Fast flooding from the sky,
That streams through these black prison bars
In sheerest mockery,
Recalling thoughts, by green woods bred,
To mad me ere I die.
Dear western wind, now blowing soft
Upon my faded cheek,
Thy angel whisperings seem even now
Of Silverwood to speak;
Of streams and bowers that make man's heart
As very woman's weak.
