Poems (Cromwell)/Solicitude
SOLICITUDE
To me your transport is a dim surmise, A vague, imagined bliss. But I will brace Myself to life; though languid for the chase, Will gird my grief. Where your swift pleasure flies—Beneath whatever mirth-alluring skies—I'll follow, lest you pause in darkling space. Oh, let me gather stars, and turn your face To these, lest, meeting night, you breathe faint sighs!Is joy illusion? This, in sooth, is clear,—The pause of weariness; and should I hear You drop a single sombre semitone From Paradise, I'd gather every star; For I divine what it must be to mar This wonder that my breast has never known.