Hope

As one who, long by wasting sickness worn,
  Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard
  Unmoved the carol of the matin bird
  Salute his lonely porch; now first at morn
  Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;
  He the green slope and level meadow views,
  Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews;
  Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head
  In varying forms fantastic wander white;
  Or turns his ear to every random song,
  Heard the green river's winding marge along,
  The whilst each sense is steeped in still delight.
  So o'er my breast young Summer's breath I feel,
  Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal!