Poems (Louisa Blake)/Solitude
For works with similar titles, see Solitude.
SOLITUDE.
"It is not that my lot is low,
That bids the silent tear to flow,
It is not grief that makes me moan,
It is, that I am all alone."
Henry Kirke White.
That bids the silent tear to flow,
It is not grief that makes me moan,
It is, that I am all alone."
Henry Kirke White.
Yes, it is wo! a withering, sickening wo,
An eager glance on the bright world to fling,
And then to turn thought inward, and to know,
To feel our lonely hearts are withering;
For they will wither if they may not cling
Around some object,—they will pine and die
E'en in the opening buds of early spring,
Unless some prop,—some loved support be nigh.
An eager glance on the bright world to fling,
And then to turn thought inward, and to know,
To feel our lonely hearts are withering;
For they will wither if they may not cling
Around some object,—they will pine and die
E'en in the opening buds of early spring,
Unless some prop,—some loved support be nigh.
Oh! I would gladly give the station high,
Would joyously the charms of wealth resign,
To meet the glance of kindness from one eye,
If but the treasures of one heart were mine;
For we may go where mirth and song combine,
May seek the hall which joyous beings fill,
And yet when all are gay, we still may pine,
The heart, the heart, alas! be lonely still.
Would joyously the charms of wealth resign,
To meet the glance of kindness from one eye,
If but the treasures of one heart were mine;
For we may go where mirth and song combine,
May seek the hall which joyous beings fill,
And yet when all are gay, we still may pine,
The heart, the heart, alas! be lonely still.