Poems — Désillusion

DÉSILLUSION.

Too soon, alas!

too soon I plunged into the world with tone and clang, And they scarcely comprehended what the Poet wildly sang.

Not the spirit-glance deep gazing into nature's inmost soul, Not the mystic aspirations that the Poet's words unroll.

Cold and spiritless and silent--yea, with scorn received they me, Whilst on meaner brows around me wreath'd the laurel crown I see.

And I, who in my bosom felt the godlike nature glow, I wore the mask of folly while I sang of deepest woe.

But, courage!

years may pass--this mortal frame be laid in earth, But my spirit reign triumphant in the country of my birth!

THE PRISONERS.

CHRISTMAS, 1869.