As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, <br />Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard <br />Unmoved the carol of the matin bird <br />Salute his lonely porch; now first at morn <br />Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed; <br />He the green slope and level meadow views, <br />Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews; <br />Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head <br />In varying forms fantastic wander white; <br />Or turns his ear to every random song, <br />Heard the green river's winding marge along, <br />The whilst each sense is steeped in still delight. <br />So o'er my breast young Summer's breath I feel, <br />Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal!<br /><br />William Lisle Bowles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hope-414/
