To Melancholy. Written on the Banks of the Arun, October 1785
When latest autumn spreads her evening veil,
And the grey mists from these dim waves arise,
I love to listen to the hollow sighs
Through the half-leafless wood that breathes the gale;
For at such hours the shadowy phantom pale
Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes—
Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies
As of night-wanderers who their woes bewail!
Here by his native stream at such an hour
Pity's own Otway I methinks could meet,
And hear his deep sighs swell the saddened wind.
Oh Melancholy, such thy magic power
That to the soul these dreams are often sweet,
And soothe the pensive visionary mind!
And the grey mists from these dim waves arise,
I love to listen to the hollow sighs
Through the half-leafless wood that breathes the gale;
For at such hours the shadowy phantom pale
Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes—
Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies
As of night-wanderers who their woes bewail!
Here by his native stream at such an hour
Pity's own Otway I methinks could meet,
And hear his deep sighs swell the saddened wind.
Oh Melancholy, such thy magic power
That to the soul these dreams are often sweet,
And soothe the pensive visionary mind!
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