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Mary Darby Robinson - Sonnet XXVI: Where Antique Woods
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Where antique woods o`er-hang the mountains`s crest,
And mid-day glooms in solemn silence lour;
Philosophy, go seek a lonely bow`r,
And waste life`s fervid noon in fancied rest.
Go, where the bird of sorrow weaves her nest,
Cooing, in sadness sweet, through night`s dim hour;
Go, cull the dew-drops from each potent flow`r
That med`cines to the cold and reas`ning breast!
Go, where the brook in liquid lapse steals by,
Scarce heard amid`st the mingling echoes round,
What time, the noon fades slowly down the sky,
And slumb`ring zephyrs moan, in caverns bound:
Be these thy pleasures, dull Philosophy!
Nor vaunt the balm, to heal a lover`s wound.
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