Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
X. “No hope is mine, no comfort mine”George Henry Boker (1823–1890)
N
Am as an exile, and no pilgrim’s grace
Nerves my despair; I never can retrace
The paths I trod, though myriads pass me by,
Journeying, light-hearted, to the happy place
Whence I am driven. Thou, Nature, on whose face
I look for aid, dost close thy weary eye
Against my grief. The moon wanes in the sky,
The flowers dry up and perish, the great sea
Through all its land-locked arteries ebbs; the dew
Lies sickening on the blighted branch; no new
Creation opens with the spring: to me
There is no crescent moon, no bud, no view
Of refluent tides, no fruit,—nor will there be.