The Poet’S Delay

In vain I see the morning rise, In vain observe the western blaze, Who idly look to other skies, Expecting life by other ways.

Amidst such boundless wealth without, I only still am poor within, The birds have sung their summer out, But still my spring does not begin.

Shall I then wait the autumn wind, Compelled to seek a milder day, And leave no curious nest behind, No woods still echoing to my lay?