Ah! wonder not if I appear
Regardless of the Pleasures here;
Or that my Thoughts are thus confin’d
To the just Limits of my Mind.
My Eyes take no delight to rove
O’er all the smiling Charmers of the Grove,
Since she is absent whom they love.
Ask me not, Why the Flow’ry Spring,
Or the gay little Birds that sing,
Or the young Streams no more delight,
Or Shades and Arbours can’t invite?
Why the soft Murmurs of the Wind,
Within the thick-grown Groves confin’d,
No more my Soul transport, or cheer;
Since all that’s charming—Iris, is not here;
Nothing seems glorious, nothing fair.
Then suffer me to wander thus,
With down-cast Eyes, and Arms a-cross:
Let Beauty unregarded go;
The Trees and Flowers unheeded grow.
Let purling Streams neglected glide;
With all the Spring’s adorning Pride.
‘Tis Iris only Soul can give
To the dull Shades, and Plains, and make ’em thrive;
Nature and my last Joys retrieve.
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