Poems (Griffin)/Melancholy

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MELANCHOLY.
OH, ask me not, dear mother, Why oft upon this browA shade of melancholy sits, And shrouds it even now.
It is not grief, my mother; Then think no more of this;'Tis but a soothing pensiveness, That yields me purest bliss.
There's oft a dream delicious Steals o'er me with a spell,—A kind of pleasing rhapsody My spirit would not quell.
Then seek no more to vanquish This rapture of the mind,Where thought with thought participate In feelings pure, refined.
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I would not spare its solace, But woo it when alone;For I am happy when its spell Is closely round me thrown.
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