The Numb Strain.

Oh how I wish to bid thee well
And with 'nother morrow bring me joy;
Perchance, I let thy ship to sail
Freely across my sea as a buoy.

The roosters in the early morrow
Mark the arrival of a new gloom.
Whilst I drown in sorrow,
Euphrosyne conceals herself in 'nother room.

Oh thee, hear thee:
Ye Madame, washing thy clothes
Art thy hands not weary?
Thou and I art alike much, my roads
Hath washed away joy in ton
Like thy unweary hands hath done.

Hath I crossed it,
Hath thou ,merciless,shown thy wrath?
Oh Melancholy, is this life but a skit?

Mirth, where art thou?
Forlorn stretches of two summers
Since I gaze upon yon smile.
Sans thee, I'm wan, though
Thy thought holds getting grimmer
For in thy smile, I saw
Something I could rejoice in thy exile.