Poor, troubled heart, if thou would'st find relief,
And think’st thy woe were eas’d if it were heard,
⁠Go, 'prentice thee to that sad-colour'd bird,
And learn to make the world in love with grief.
Sing as he sings, and tender eyes will weep,
⁠Sing to the night, as after summer's drouth
⁠The dew unseals the rose’s silent mouth,
And all but love and sorrow are asleep.
Drug day with work, for day is loud and bold,
⁠Sing to the night, let sorrow make no sign
Till it can flutter in the sunset gold,
⁠Or in the silver moonlight softly shine;
Then let it forth, wild fire, or saving stream,
To take its way unchalleng'd, — as a dream!