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SOSPIRI VOLATE.
O cruel waves ! to bear away my gladness ;
O stedfast rock ! to rest my hand upon ;
O traitress heart ! to melt away in sadness ;
O dazzling sunbeams ! would ye never shone !
O little bloom of fragile faithful heather !
Come, let me press my burning lips on you ;
Come, teach me how to bear this stress of weather,
And give my parched tongue a sense of dew.
Mine eyes, my poor wet eyes, are aching, aching ;
The heavy tears lie scorching on my cheek ;
My heart is hungry, weary, — is it breaking ?
Good-bye, good-bye, I cannot, cannot speak.
