I.

I’m weary, I’m weary,—this cold world of ours; I will go dwell afar, with fairies and flowers. Farewell to the festal, the hall of the dance, Where each step is a study, a falsehood each glance; Where the vain are displaying, the vapid are yawning; Where the beauty of night, the glory of dawning, Are wasted, as Fashion, that tyrant, at will Makes war on sweet nature, and exiles her still.