A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Sonnet—Rimembranza (Joséphin Soulary)
Sonnet.—RIMEMBRANZA.
Of thy early days, speak, and of all their fresh dreams,
The bright-winged angels who oft wheeled o'er thy nights,
Thy petty big sorrows, and thy childish delights,
Thy illusions, flowers from the cradle, and gleams,
And the struggles with which a too timid heart teems,
At which Clorinde more ripe has oft smiled. There are sprites
That imitate Love's looks; dim stars on the heights
That herald the Sun, though they fade in his beams.
Conceal nothing from me of old times; of the whole
I love to recompose thread by thread the bright chain
Which, up to the Infinite, makes me follow thy soul—
Like the miser I feel, who though rich would still gain,
Who clutches at silver, though in gold he may roll:
I would hear, rose in hand, of the green bud again.