Paradise Lost by Frances Wynne

Fair at my feet the lake of Como lies;
I hear its murmurous ripples ebb and flow.
Around me, ranging proudly row on row,
The dreamy purple-crested mountains rise.
All bright before me when I lift my eyes
Stands quaint Varenna in the sun a-glow;
And everywhere the crowding roses blow
In this most perfect place, this paradise.

And yet my wayward thoughts will not be bound,
Nor rest at all in this enchanted ground;
They wander forth far over land and sea.
And through the London streets in chill and gloom
They thread their way to some one, wanting whom
Even Paradise is Paradise Lost for me.

Menaggio, May, 1890.

From: Wynne, Frances, Whisper!, 1893, Elkin Mathews and John Lane: London, p. 54.
(https://archive.org/stream/whisper00wynnrich#page/54/mode/2up)

Date: 1890

By: Frances Wynne (1863-1893)

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