Poor, troubled heart, if thou would'st find relief,
And think’st thy woe were eas’d if it were heard,
Go, 'prentice thee to that sad-colour'd bird,
And learn to make the world in love with grief.
Sing as he sings, and tender eyes will weep,
Sing to the night, as after summer's drouth
The dew unseals the rose’s silent mouth,
And all but love and sorrow are asleep.
Drug day with work, for day is loud and bold,
Sing to the night, let sorrow make no sign
Till it can flutter in the sunset gold,
Or in the silver moonlight softly shine;
Then let it forth, wild fire, or saving stream,
To take its way unchalleng'd, — as a dream!
