Sonnet XXII. Pennyroyal.

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HEAVY with cares no winnowing hand could sift,
Wrapt in a sadness never to be told,
As o'er the fields and through the woods I strolled,
Following with restless footstep but the drift
Of the still August morn, so I might shift
The scenery of my thoughts, and gild their old
Monotonous fringes with a light less cold,
I found the aromatic herb, whose swift
And sweet associations bore me away
To boyhood, when beneath an oak like this
I culled the fragrant leaves. Crude childhood's bliss
Was in the scent; but brighter smiled the day
For memories no cold shade could overcast —
Safe 'mid the unblighted treasures of the past.

© Christopher Pearse Cranch