Hope

As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, 
Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard 
Unmoved the carol of the matin bird 
Salute his lonely porch; now first at morn 
Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed; 
He the green slope and level meadow views, 
Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews; 
Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head 
In varying forms fantastic wander white; 
Or turns his ear to every random song, 
Heard the green river's winding marge along, 
The whilst each sense is steeped in still delight. 
So o'er my breast young Summer's breath I feel, 
Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal!