The room is quiet, thoughts alone People its mute tranquillity3； The yoke4 put off, the long task done, I am, as it is bliss5 to be, Still and untroubled. Now, I see, For the first time, how soft the day O'er waveless water, stirless tree, Silent and sunny, wings its way. Now, as I watch that distant hill, So faint, so blue, so far removed, Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill, That home where I am known and loved： It lies beyond； yon azure6 brow Parts me from all Earth holds for me； And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow Thitherward tending, changelessly. My happiest hours, aye！ all the time, I love to keep in memory, Lapsed7 among moors8, ere life's first prime Decayed to dark anxiety.

Sometimes, I think a narrow heart Makes me thus mourn those far away, And keeps my love so far apart From friends and friendships of today； Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream I treasure up so jealously, All the sweet thoughts I live on seem To vanish into vacancy9： And then, this strange, coarse world around Seems all that's palpable and true； And every sight, and every sound, Combines my spirit to subdue10 To aching grief, so void and lone2 Is Life and Earthso worse than vain, The hopes that, in my own heart sown, And cherished by such sun and rain As Joy and transient Sorrow shed, Have ripened11 to a harvest there： Alas12！ methinks I hear it said, Thy golden sheaves are empty air.

All fades away； my very home I think will soon be desolate13； I hear, at times, a warning come Of bitter partings at its gate； And, if I should return and see The hearth-fire quenched14, the vacant chair； And hear it whispered mournfully, That farewells have been spoken there, What shall I do, and whither turn？ Where look for peace？ When cease to mourn？

*

'Tis not the air I wished to play, The strain I wished to sing； My wilful15 spirit slipped away And struck another string. I neither wanted smile nor tear, Bright joy nor bitter woe16, But just a song that sweet and clear, Though haply sad, might flow.

A quiet song, to solace17 me When sleep refused to come； A strain to chase despondency, When sorrowful for home. In vain I try； I cannot sing； All feels so cold and dead； No wild distress18, no gushing19 spring Of tears in anguish20 shed；

But all the impatient gloom of one Who waits a distant day, When, some great task of suffering done, Repose21 shall toil22 repay. For youth departs, and pleasure flies, And life consumes away, And youth's rejoicing ardour dies Beneath this drear delay；

And Patience, weary with her yoke, Is yielding to despair, And Health's elastic23 spring is broke Beneath the strain of care. Life will be gone ere I have lived； Where now is Life's first prime？ I've worked and studied, longed and grieved, Through all that rosy24 time.

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve, Is such my future fate？ The morn was dreary25, must the eve Be also desolate？ Well, such a life at least makes Death A welcome, wished-for friend； Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith, To suffer to the end！