190. He Laments His Absence from Felicity -
HE LAMENTS HIS ABSENCE FROM FELICITY
No savage beast lairs lonelier than I,
Never was bird, deprived of young, more lone,
Now that I see no more that face, the one
Sun of my soul, the one sun in the sky.
My chief delight is one incessant sigh;
My food is poison, every bliss is done;
Black is each night, bright is no day — no, none;
And hard as hail the bed on which I lie.
Slumber is of a truth — ah, stubborn jest! —
Death's second self, for it absents the soul
From that dear thought in which alone I live.
Land rich with fruit, with loveliness oppressed,
Valley of bloom, green bank and shadowed knoll,
That jewel you possess whose loss I grieve!
No savage beast lairs lonelier than I,
Never was bird, deprived of young, more lone,
Now that I see no more that face, the one
Sun of my soul, the one sun in the sky.
My chief delight is one incessant sigh;
My food is poison, every bliss is done;
Black is each night, bright is no day — no, none;
And hard as hail the bed on which I lie.
Slumber is of a truth — ah, stubborn jest! —
Death's second self, for it absents the soul
From that dear thought in which alone I live.
Land rich with fruit, with loveliness oppressed,
Valley of bloom, green bank and shadowed knoll,
That jewel you possess whose loss I grieve!
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