O, could I feel as I have felt, - or be what I have been,

Or weep as I could once have wept, over my vanished homely scene;

As springs in desert found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,

So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

This is no bull, although it sounds so; for

nothing is what it ought to be in this warthorn land, it been said.

A third´s all pallid aspect offered more

The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betrayed