Hence, away, vindictive thought;
Thy pictures are of pain;
The visions through thy dark eye caught,
They with no gentle charms are fraught,
So pr'y thee back again.
I would not weep,
I wish to sleep,
Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?
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Henry Kirke White · Romanticismo
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Hence, away, vindictive thought;
Thy pictures are of pain;
The visions through thy dark eye caught,
They with no gentle charms are fraught,
So pr'y thee back again.
I would not weep,
I wish to sleep,
Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?
← To the muse. — Written at the age of fourteenVerses occasioned by the death of — Henry Kirke White →
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