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poems.
Letters I never write often;
But I've now been here a long time;
So your just displeasure to soften
I've attempted to write you in rhyme.
But I've now been here a long time;
So your just displeasure to soften
I've attempted to write you in rhyme.
But this I must bring to a close,
Although I have much more to tell;
The rest I will write you in prose,
And this evening will bid you farewell.
Although I have much more to tell;
The rest I will write you in prose,
And this evening will bid you farewell.
WINTER.
Thou reignest, winter! mighty is thy power,
Which not the sun in all its glory breaks.
Though warm its radiancy at noontide hour,
No more its rays diffusive, nature wakes;
No more the ripple whisp'ring music makes;
No more the bright leaves breathe their vari'd song;
We list in vain the bird's melodious notes;
Gone is the twilight which did day prolong
In soften'd shades of glory;—now along
The stormy sky no shining warbler floats,
Breathing sweet sounds,—on light and happy wing
They fled at thy approach; and the fair flowers
On thy cold shrine are laid an offering.
But soon to us shall come bright, sunny hours;
And the wild-birds return to leafy bow'rs
When thou art here, sweet spring!
Which not the sun in all its glory breaks.
Though warm its radiancy at noontide hour,
No more its rays diffusive, nature wakes;
No more the ripple whisp'ring music makes;
No more the bright leaves breathe their vari'd song;
We list in vain the bird's melodious notes;
Gone is the twilight which did day prolong
In soften'd shades of glory;—now along
The stormy sky no shining warbler floats,
Breathing sweet sounds,—on light and happy wing
They fled at thy approach; and the fair flowers
On thy cold shrine are laid an offering.
But soon to us shall come bright, sunny hours;
And the wild-birds return to leafy bow'rs
When thou art here, sweet spring!
