215
Sonnet 68.
Garo wzniká, mlhy plašj slunce.
'Tis spring—the sun is putting forth his rays—
The gentle airs play lovingly together,
And on the green boughs, shaded from the weather;
The nightingales are singing rapturous lays:
The seeds are swelling for the harvest days—
The squirrels springing, and the bulls are prancing—
The butterflies along the pram dancing,
And the bees singing endless roundelays.
There's universal joy—or eloquent,
Or silent—yet 'tis joy—and love, and gladness;
While I—poor devotee of woe and sadness,
On spring and summer turn a hopeless eye:—
Dark is the sun to me—joy's a fountain dry,
Since from my soul, that soul's sweet life was rent.