Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/206

 Of Husband and of Father; nor unhearing Of that divine and nightly-whispering Voice, Which from my childhood to maturer years Spake to me of predestinated wreaths, Bright with no fading colours!

Yet at times My soul is sad, that I have roam'd through life Still most a Stranger, most with naked heart At mine own home and birth-place: chiefly then, When I remember thee, my earliest Friend! Thee, who did'st watch my boy-hood and my youth; Did'st trace my wanderings with a Father's eye; And boding evil yet still hoping good Rebuk'd each fault, and over all my woes Sorrow'd in Silence! He who counts alone The beatings of the solitary heart, That Being knows, how I have lov'd thee ever, Lov'd as a brother, as a Son rever'd thee! Oh! tis to me an ever new delight To talk of thee and thine; or when the blast Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash, Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl;