Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/377



is this world to me? A harp sans melodie; A dream of vain idlesse, A thought of bitterness, That grieves the aching brain, And gnaws the heart in twain!

My spirit pines allwaie, Like captive shut from day; Or like a sillie flower, Estranged from sun and shower— Which, withering, soon must die, In love-lorne privacie.

No joye my hearte doth finde, With those they calle my kinde; O dull it is and sad, To see how men waxe bad: As Autumn leaves decay, So verteue fades away!