Poetry Archives

Why, why repine, my pensive friend,
  At pleasures slipp’d away?
Some the stern Fates will never lend,
  And all refuse to stay.

I see the rainbow in the sky,
  The dew upon the grass;
I see them, and I ask not why
  They glimmer or they pass.

With folded arms I linger not
  To call them back; ’twere vain:
In this, or in some other spot,
  I know they’ll shine again.