Let me not grieve, though blasting blight my days;
Let me not, with harsh cadence, crash the sound;
Let me not smear this fond record of praise,
Nor pause on sorrow’s inharmonious round;
Nay, let me capture joy, and, rashly-glad,
Bend bliss reluctant to my craving sense;
But, softening, soon, I’ll grow more lonely-sad,
Beckoning Content to chase those phantoms hence:
With velvet tread, lynx eye, he steals along,
Dreading the indent of some half-healed mishap;
Then, gathering courage, treads with step more strong,
And probes the withered trunk’s neglected sap:
He threads the weeded Past, without annoy;
And boasts, at length, from pain a new-found joy.