sonnets.
189
From all these mofinds, though day blows fresh and warm,
The wasting snow of this snow-haunted spring
Marks out her nameless hillock; lingering
As loth to rifle of its virgin charm,
That spot of all. No sudden-winged alarm
The little blue-bird takes, that looks abroad
From yon top twig, with prophecy o'erflowed.
Beyond all dread or heeding;—hark! so calm
Rills forth his vocal sunshine on the air!
A frail hepatica has here forerun
The bounty of the seagson.—Ah, forbear!
Take no life here: the aspiring dust has won
To other bloom and sweetness—Iet us share
With God's mute confidant this vernal sun.
The wasting snow of this snow-haunted spring
Marks out her nameless hillock; lingering
As loth to rifle of its virgin charm,
That spot of all. No sudden-winged alarm
The little blue-bird takes, that looks abroad
From yon top twig, with prophecy o'erflowed.
Beyond all dread or heeding;—hark! so calm
Rills forth his vocal sunshine on the air!
A frail hepatica has here forerun
The bounty of the seagson.—Ah, forbear!
Take no life here: the aspiring dust has won
To other bloom and sweetness—Iet us share
With God's mute confidant this vernal sun.
