To wander, and study, and revel, To eat, drink, and live like a man... (Pain, you’re a villainous devil!...) With never a doctor to ban--
To eat, drink, and live like a man, To wander in meadow and wood, With never a doctor to ban Those things that I know to be good...
To wander in meadow and wood, With Someone, enjoying October, Those things that I know to be good, The sky, be it sunny or sober.
With Someone, enjoying October, To see the gay trees and the hills, The sky, be it sunny or sober, With a curse on all doctors and pills...
To see the gay trees and the hills, Hope is quick faded and fled. With a curse on all doctors and pills, Here I must lie on my bed!...
When Doris deigns to gaze on me All happy thoughts be mine; Her eyes are two twin stars, I wis, Bright in my soul they shine; No earth-born flower one half so fair As she, no joy can aught compare With my sweet fire of love, perdie, When Doris deigns to gaze on me!
When Doris deigns to smile on me The whole world brighter grows; A clearer azure takes the sky, A deeper blush the rose; The circling lark upon the wing A sweeter, purer song doth sing, And just a bit of Heav’n I see, When Doris deigns to smile on me!
Silence and peace. The warm, love-bringing Night From the pure zenith soft and slow descending Lulls the sweet air to rest, with the day’s ending, Save where the dark bat wheels his fickle flight. Deep glows the rosy-golden West, still bright, Beyond the plumy toss of elms down-bending, Whilst on the close-cut lawns, blurring and bending, Tall chapel-windows cast their ruddy light.
Now the clear blue of the mid dome of heaven Darkens, immeasurably deep and still. That one full star which ushers in the even Burns in rapt glory o’er the steadfast spire; And the Night-angel strews at his sweet will The silvern star-dust of the heavenly choir.
Dead is the day, and through the list’ning leaves The wind-dirge sighs. Sad at my dim-lit pane I darkling sit to hear the pattering rain And pebbly drip that plashes from the eaves. Far in the misty fields loll sodden sheaves, Whilst every wheel-mark in the rutty lane Leads down its trickling rivulet to drain Marsh-meadows where the knotted willow grieves.
Gray afternoon to dusk hath given place, And dusk to silent darkness falls again. Listless, to see the sad earth veil her face, I watch the miry fields, the swollen rills, And, farther, through my glimmering windowpane, The rain-swept valley and the fading hills...