Sappho and Phaon: Sonnet XXVI

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