66
IN MANCHESTER
And rests awhile upon the dewy slope
Where I will hope again the old, old hope.
With wandering we are worn my muse and I,
And, if I sing, my song knows nought of mirth.
I often think my soul is an old lie
In sackcloth, it repents so much of birth.
But I will build it yet a cloister home
Near the peace of lakes when I have ceased to roam.
