Still dumb thou sittest, with a downcast look,
The world forgetting o'er a brown old book;

While she who would be always near thee tries
In silence to embrace thee with her eyes.

Say not so sharply ‘Leave me here in peace!’
Nay! leave thy book, and from dull reading cease;

Since many a man who sits alone, perplexed,
Would yield all else to be so teased and vexed.

Give up thy book of life for Love to paint
With golden pictures of a household saint,

With miniatures whose blazon may provide
For days that shall grow dark a light and guide;

So when thou turn'st the page where love struck blind
Thy bookish eyes, an angel thou shalt find.