Canto XXXVIII
With weary steps I loiter on,Tho’ always under alter’d skiesThe purple from the distance dies,My prospect and horizon gone.
No joy the blowing season gives,The herald melodies of spring,But in the songs I love to singA doubtful gleam of solace lives.
If any care for what is hereSurvive in spirits render’d free,Then are these songs I sing of theeNot all ungrateful to thine ear.