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Charlotte Smith - Sonnet VIII. To Spring
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AGAIN the wood and long-withdrawing vale
In many a tint of tender green are drest,
Where the young leaves, unfolding, scarce conceal
Beneath their early shade, the half-form`d nest
Of finch or woodlark; and the primrose pale,
And lavish cowslip, wildly scatter`d round,
Give their sweet spirits to the sighing gale.
Ah! season of delight!--could aught be found
To soothe awhile the tortured bosom`s pain,
Of sorrow`s rankling shaft to cure the wound,
And bring life`s first delusions once again,
`Twere surely met in thee!--thy prospect fair,
Thy sounds of harmony, thy balmy air,
Have power to cure all sadness--but despair.
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