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?