2. The swallow summer comes again-- The owlet night resumes her reign-- _10 But the wild-swan youth is fain To fly with thee, false as thou.-- My heart each day desires the morrow; Sleep itself is turned to sorrow; Vainly would my winter borrow _15 Sunny leaves from any bough. 3. Lilies for a bridal bed-- Roses for a matron's head-- Violets for a maiden dead-- Pansies let MY flowers be: _20 On the living grave I bear Scatter them without a tear-- Let no friend, however dear, Waste one hope, one fear for me. NOTES: _5-_7 So editions 1824, 1839, Trelawny manuscript, Harvard manuscript; As the wood when leaves are shed, As the night when sleep is fled, As the heart when joy is dead Houghton manuscript. _13 So editions 1824, 1839, Harvard manuscript, Houghton manuscript. My heart to-day desires to-morrow Trelawny manuscript. _20 So editions 1824, 1839, Harvard manuscript, Houghton manuscript. Sadder flowers find for me Trelawny manuscript. _24 one hope, one fear]a hope, a fear Trelawny manuscript. *** TO EDWARD WILLIAMS. [Published in Ascham's edition of the "Poems", 1834. There is a copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts.] 1. The serpent is shut out from Paradise. The wounded deer must seek the herb no more In which its heart-cure lies: The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower Like that from which its mate with feigned sighs _5 Fled in the April hour. I too must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain. 2. Of hatred I am proud,--with scorn content; Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown _10 Itself indifferent; But, not to speak of love, pity alone Can break a spirit already more than bent. The miserable one Turns the mind's poison into food,-- _15 Its medicine is tears,--its evil good. 3. Therefore, if now I see you seldomer, Dear friends, dear FRIEND! know that I only fly Your looks, because they stir Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die: _20 The very comfort that they minister I scarce can bear, yet I, So deeply is the arrow gone, Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn. 4. When I return to my cold home, you ask _25 Why I am not as I have ever been. YOU spoil me for the task Of acting a forced part in life's dull scene,-- Of wearing on my brow the idle mask Of author, great or mean, _30 In the world's carnival. I sought Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.