Detdiar sidj as efterluket wurden.
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In lowly hut, or on the throne,
A seamstress or an amazon,
The woman is the woman still ;
A vine that droops if naught sustain,
A being of its half forlorn,
To whom all joys unshared are vain,
Whose every pleasure is twin-born !
This quick pulsation that is fraught
With suffering, yet a joy to feel —
This longing for I know not what,
So painful and so gladsome still —
It hath no aim, it hath no bound ;
As if on wings, I leave the ground
And soar to Heaven, whose starry dome
Of blest immortals is the home,
Then downward to the earth I fall,
To you, dear forms ! familiar all ;
Ye trees that with me have grown up,
Thou hillock with thy flowery top,
Thou brook with all thy songs of love —
