HOW WEARY! HOW DREARY!
How weary! how dreary! with no friend to ease the heart’s painIn moments of sorrow of soul!Fond desires! But what use the desire that is ever in vain?And o’er us the best years roll.To love. But the loved one? ’Tis nothing to love for a space;And for ever Love cannot remain.Dost thou glance at thyself? Of the “has been” remains not a trace,And all gladness and sorrow are vain.The passions? Ah! sooner or later, their malady sweetWill vanish at reason’s behest;And life—when the circle of cold contemplation’s complete—Is a stupid and frivolous jest.
How weary! how dreary! with no friend to ease the heart’s painIn moments of sorrow of soul!Fond desires! But what use the desire that is ever in vain?And o’er us the best years roll.To love. But the loved one? ’Tis nothing to love for a space;And for ever Love cannot remain.Dost thou glance at thyself? Of the “has been” remains not a trace,And all gladness and sorrow are vain.The passions? Ah! sooner or later, their malady sweetWill vanish at reason’s behest;And life—when the circle of cold contemplation’s complete—Is a stupid and frivolous jest.
How weary! how dreary! with no friend to ease the heart’s painIn moments of sorrow of soul!Fond desires! But what use the desire that is ever in vain?And o’er us the best years roll.
How weary! how dreary! with no friend to ease the heart’s pain
In moments of sorrow of soul!
Fond desires! But what use the desire that is ever in vain?
And o’er us the best years roll.
To love. But the loved one? ’Tis nothing to love for a space;And for ever Love cannot remain.Dost thou glance at thyself? Of the “has been” remains not a trace,And all gladness and sorrow are vain.
To love. But the loved one? ’Tis nothing to love for a space;
And for ever Love cannot remain.
Dost thou glance at thyself? Of the “has been” remains not a trace,
And all gladness and sorrow are vain.
The passions? Ah! sooner or later, their malady sweetWill vanish at reason’s behest;And life—when the circle of cold contemplation’s complete—Is a stupid and frivolous jest.
The passions? Ah! sooner or later, their malady sweet
Will vanish at reason’s behest;
And life—when the circle of cold contemplation’s complete—
Is a stupid and frivolous jest.