Comfort in Nature
Art sick?—art sad?—art angry with the world?
Do all friends fail thee? Why, then, give thyself
Unto the forests and the ambrosial fields:
Commerce with them, and with the eternal sky.
Despair not, fellow. He who casts himself
On Nature's fair full bosom, and draws food,
Drinks from a fountain that is never dry.
The Poet haunts there: Youth that ne'er grows old
Dwells with her and her flowers; and Beauty sleeps
In her most green recesses, to be found
By all who seek her truly.
Do all friends fail thee? Why, then, give thyself
Unto the forests and the ambrosial fields:
Commerce with them, and with the eternal sky.
Despair not, fellow. He who casts himself
On Nature's fair full bosom, and draws food,
Drinks from a fountain that is never dry.
The Poet haunts there: Youth that ne'er grows old
Dwells with her and her flowers; and Beauty sleeps
In her most green recesses, to be found
By all who seek her truly.
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