A thing well said will be writ in all languages. - John Dryden 1631-1700
Lone's the mist-cloaked road before me lying...
Lone's the mist-cloaked road before me lying;
On and on it winds and draws me far.
Night is still, all earthly sounds are dying;
Nature lists to God; star speaks to star.
Clothed in dark is earth and wrapt in slumber,
And the skies are full of majesty.
Why, then, does reflection, drear and sombre,
Plague my heart and slay felicity?
I await no boons of fate, regretting
Not the past, for that is buried deep.
Ah, to find true freedom, true forgetting
In the calm of everlasting sleep!
Yet I dread the cold and clammy fingers
And the leaden, icy sleep of death.
Would that life within me, dormant, lingered
And I felt its warm and balmy breath;
Would that love's own voice, my ear caressing,
Night and day sang dulcet song to me,
And an ancient oak, my slumber blessing,
Swayed above my head eternally.