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124
SONNET.
(LAVATERA ARBOREA.)
Weary with uncongenial employ
I sat in my lone room all spiritless,
The very type of gloomy idleness;
My most-loved books I could not then enjoy,
But, like a tired child, craved some newer toy
To call back pleasure out of weariness.
My cheek leaned on my hand, and a stray tress
Of hair writhed in my idle fingers. To destroy
At one blest moment, my most gloomy mood,
A small hand oped the door—a loved friend stood
Smiling beside me, and these fair flowers placed
On my neglected palette: swift away
Flew my dark vapours, while aroused and gay,
Pencil in hand, the portrait-group I traced.
