Where antique woods o'er-hang the mountains's crest, <br />And mid-day glooms in solemn silence lour; <br />Philosophy, go seek a lonely bow'r, <br />And waste life's fervid noon in fancied rest. <br />Go, where the bird of sorrow weaves her nest, <br />Cooing, in sadness sweet, through night's dim hour; <br />Go, cull the dew-drops from each potent flow'r <br />That med'cines to the cold and reas'ning breast! <br />Go, where the brook in liquid lapse steals by, <br />Scarce heard amid'st the mingling echoes round, <br />What time, the noon fades slowly down the sky, <br />And slumb'ring zephyrs moan, in caverns bound: <br />Be these thy pleasures, dull Philosophy! <br />Nor vaunt the balm, to heal a lover's wound.<br /><br />Mary Darby Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxvi-where-antique-woods/
