IV

They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:

      O folly! What is Love? and where is it?

And for that poor Ambition! it springs

      From a man's little heart's short fever-fit;

For Poesy!—no,—she has not a joy,—

      At least for me,—so sweet as drowsy noons,

            And evenings steep'd in honied indolence;

O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy,

      That I may never know how change the moons,

            Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!