Vast and deep the mountain shadows grew.
The good are better made by ill, As odours crushed are sweeter still.
I lived to write, and wrote to live.
Go! you may call it madness, folly; You shall not chase my gloom away! There 's such a charm in melancholy I would not if I could be gay.
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.