Poems (Cromwell)/Solicitude
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SOLICITUDE
To me your transport is a dim surmise,
A vague, imagined bliss. But I will brace
Myself to life; though languid for the chase,
Will gird my grief. Where your swift pleasure flies—
Beneath whatever mirth-alluring skies—
I'll follow, lest you pause in darkling space.
Oh, let me gather stars, and turn your face
To these, lest, meeting night, you breathe faint sighs!
Is joy illusion? This, in sooth, is clear,—
The pause of weariness; and should I hear
You drop a single sombre semitone
From Paradise, I'd gather every star;
For I divine what it must be to mar
This wonder that my breast has never known.
A vague, imagined bliss. But I will brace
Myself to life; though languid for the chase,
Will gird my grief. Where your swift pleasure flies—
Beneath whatever mirth-alluring skies—
I'll follow, lest you pause in darkling space.
Oh, let me gather stars, and turn your face
To these, lest, meeting night, you breathe faint sighs!
Is joy illusion? This, in sooth, is clear,—
The pause of weariness; and should I hear
You drop a single sombre semitone
From Paradise, I'd gather every star;
For I divine what it must be to mar
This wonder that my breast has never known.