To Melancholy

Come maiden sad — of sorrows and of sighs
Pale melancholy! with the downcast look,
Come when the dewy eve the landscape dyes:
The church yard yew we'll pass, and gurgling brook,
And see the snow white moth, on stilly breeze,
Dance by the spinney hedge, & through the leaves.
While the dull visions trouble, and deceives
Thy soul with troubles all thine own:
The stilly eve, thy secret woe receives.
Maiden thou'rt like the church yards mossy stone,
Thou readest thy troubles to the world unknown,
Thy kind face soothes all sorrow save thine own.
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