Uncursed.

On Being Cautioned Against Walking on an Headland Overlooking the Sea, Because It Was Frequented by a Lunatic

Is there a solitary wretch who hies

   To the tall cliff, with starting pace or slow,

And, measuring, views with wild and hollow eyes

   Its distance from the waves that chide below;

Who, as the sea-born gale with frequent sighs

   Chills his cold bed upon the mountain turf,

With hoarse, half-uttered lamentation, lies

   Murmuring responses to the dashing surf?

In moody sadness, on the giddy brink,

   I see him more with envy than with fear;

He has no nice felicities that shrink

   From giant horrors; wildly wandering here,

He seems (uncursed with reason) not to know
The depth or the duration of his woe.

Charlotte Smith