Fortune

O fortune! O FORTUNE! thou capricious thing!
Flitting on low or lofty wing;
Now scattering round thee honey-dew,
Now dark drops of poison too:
All thy vanities well I know,
Joy is a heap of mountain-snow;
Fond words are the forms in the stream that dwell,
As sweet and brittle as the honey-cell.

Thy heart I worship—and dwell with thee
Wherever thou go, whatever thou be;
For thee to live, and for thee to die,
Were a bright and a blessed destiny.
But a time may come, when my heart, set free,
Shall bring no tribute of love to thee;
And the sunshine of joy, long veil'd, may soon
Pour in my path the light of noon.