Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
I. The Poets SolitudeThomas Doubleday (17901870)
T
Be seldom printed by the stranger’s feet—
Hath not its silent plenitude of sweet:
Look at yon lone and solitary dell;
The stream that loiters ’mid its stones can tell
What flowerets its unnoted waters meet,
What odors o’er its narrow margin fleet;
Ay, and the Poet can repeat as well;—
The foxglove, closing inly, like a shell;
The hyacinth; the rose, of buds the chief;
The thorn, bediamonded with dewy showers;
The thyme’s wild fragrance, and the heather bell;
All, all are there. So vain is the belief
That the sequestered path has fewest flowers.