by W.
Originally published in The Metropolitan (James Cochrane) vol.1 #4 (Aug 1831).
Oh! blame me not for tears, nor think therein
A sullen peevishness or sorrow dwells;
Earth and its gayest flowers all begin
To weep when day has look'd his last farewells:
Even the moon—she's but the memory
Of sun-light gone—a sad reflection gleaming
Through the pale dews of eve, like joy with me
O'er the dim twilight hours of absence streaming:
Its raptures soften'd into melancholy,
Like a gay valley distanced into gloom;
A blue tranquillity, that seems more holy
Than when it shone in all its sunniest bloom.
If thus joy turn to tears in being remember'd,
May I not weep—my May being all December'd?