O go and sit with her, and be o’ershaded
Under the languid downfall of her hair;
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care;
There is enough of withered everywhere
To make her bower, and enough of gloom,
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom
Is Beauty’s—she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light.
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear—
Enough of chilly droppings from her brow—
Enough of fear and shadowy despair
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!
THOMAS HOOD.
[Illustration: [Pastoral Scene]]