Poem by Charlotte Turner Smith

Sonnet 47. To Fancy

Thee, Queen of Shadows! — shall I still invoke,
  Still love the scenes thy sportive pencil drew,
When on mine eyes the early radiance broke
  Which shew'd the beauteous rather than the true!
Alas! long since those glowing tints are dead,
  And now 'tis thine in darkest hues to dress
The spot where pale Experience hangs her head
  O'er the sad grave of murder'd Happiness!
Thro' thy false medium, then, no longer view'd,
  May fancied pain and fancied pleasure fly,
    And I, as from me all thy dreams depart,
Be to my wayward destiny subdued:
  Nor seek perfection with a poet's eye,
     Nor suffer anguish with a poet's heart!

1. Sonnet 13. From Petrarch (OH! place me where the burning moon)
2. Sonnet 16. From Petrarch (YE vales and woods! fair scenes of happier hours!)
3. Sonnet 58. The Glow-Worm
4. Sonnet 66. The Night-Flood Rakes
5. Sonnet 33. To the Naiad of the Arun

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