Poems (Griffin)/Melancholy
MELANCHOLY.
OH, ask me not, dear mother,
Why oft upon this brow
A shade of melancholy sits,
And shrouds it even now.
Why oft upon this brow
A shade of melancholy sits,
And shrouds it even now.
It is not grief, my mother;
Then think no more of this;
'Tis but a soothing pensiveness,
That yields me purest bliss.
Then think no more of this;
'Tis but a soothing pensiveness,
That yields me purest bliss.
There's oft a dream delicious
Steals o'er me with a spell,—
A kind of pleasing rhapsody
My spirit would not quell.
Steals o'er me with a spell,—
A kind of pleasing rhapsody
My spirit would not quell.
Then seek no more to vanquish
This rapture of the mind,
Where thought with thought participate
In feelings pure, refined.
This rapture of the mind,
Where thought with thought participate
In feelings pure, refined.
I would not spare its solace,
But woo it when alone;
For I am happy when its spell
Is closely round me thrown.
But woo it when alone;
For I am happy when its spell
Is closely round me thrown.