Page:Adelaide.pdf/112

109

SONNET.

not the traveller's delight, When he looks on Italia's loveliness, Or the Swiss mountains rise before his sight; The view to me would be but loneliness, Remembering me that I was far away (Like to a leaf, borne from its natural spray) From my own dwelling. It does seem most strange, What happiness it can be thus to range: Let others roam this world of wonders through— Theirs be each beauty of the earth and sea; The flower gemm'd green, the narrow arch of blue, Around my home, will be enough for me. I cannot envy him, whose footsteps rove At distance from the dear ones of his love.