George Henry Boker (1823–1890)

NO hope is mine, no comfort mine; for I

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.