On Melancholy
In ancient times, her self was but a breeze,
Blowing softly on fields of vivid green,
The rustling leaves would dance and twirl and fade,
While in the woods I wandered by her shade.
The moon would pour herself as in a stream,
Casting many a shadow with her gleam.
Eternity was hers within that glade,
While in the woods I wandered by her shade.
While in the woods I wandered by her shade,
Myself I found outcast from my old state,
I bade adieu and softly embraced my fate,
While in the woods I wandered by her shade.
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