27.05.2007, 13:13
To Melancholy.
Written on the Banks of the Arun, Octobre 1785
When latest Autumn spreads her evening veil,
And the gray mists from these dim waves arise,
I love to listen to the hollow sighs,
Through the half-leafless wood that breathes the gale:
For at such hours the shadowy phantom pale,
Oft seems to fleet before the poet’s eyes;
Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies,
As of night-wanderers, who their woes bewail!
Here, by his native stream, at such an hour,
Pity’s own Otway I methinks could meet,
And hear his deep sighs swell the saddened wind!
O Melancholy! – such thy magic power,
That to the soul these dreams are often sweet,
And soothe the pensive visionary mind!
Written on the Banks of the Arun, Octobre 1785
When latest Autumn spreads her evening veil,
And the gray mists from these dim waves arise,
I love to listen to the hollow sighs,
Through the half-leafless wood that breathes the gale:
For at such hours the shadowy phantom pale,
Oft seems to fleet before the poet’s eyes;
Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies,
As of night-wanderers, who their woes bewail!
Here, by his native stream, at such an hour,
Pity’s own Otway I methinks could meet,
And hear his deep sighs swell the saddened wind!
O Melancholy! – such thy magic power,
That to the soul these dreams are often sweet,
And soothe the pensive visionary mind!