Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew, They have no need of such as you In the place where you were going: This World has angels all too few, And Heaven is overflowing! SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL. WRITTEN IN GERMANY. IF I had but two little wings, And were a little feathery bird, But thoughts like these are idle things, But in my sleep to you I fly: I'm always with you in my sleep! The world is all one's own. But then one wakes, and where am I? All, all alone. Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids: So I love to wake ere break of day: For though my sleep be gone, Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, And still dreams on. HOME-SICK. WRITTEN IN GERMANY. "TIS sweet to him, who all the week Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day. And sweet it is, in summer bower, But what is all, to his delight, Who having long been doomed to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back, Before the door of his own home? |