Charlotte Smith (1749–1806)

WHILE thus I wander, cheerless and unblest,

And find in change of place no change of pain,

In tranquil sleep the village laborers rest,

And taste repose that I pursue in vain.

Hushed is the hamlet now; and faintly gleam

The dying embers from the casement low

Of the thatched cottage, while the Moon’s wan beam

Lends a new lustre to the dazzling snow.

O’er the cold waste, amid the freezing night,

Scarce heeding whither, desolate I stray.

For me, pale eye of evening! thy soft light

Leads to no happy home; my weary way

Ends but in dark vicissitude of care:

I only fly from doubt to meet despair.