Poetry Archives

  ’Tis sweet, in the green Spring,
To gaze upon the wakening fields around;
  Birds in the thicket sing,
Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground;
  A thousand odours rise,
Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes.

  Shadowy, and close, and cool,
The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook;
  For ever fresh and full,
Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook;
  And the soft herbage seems
Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams.

  Thou, who alone art fair,
And whom alone I love, art far away.
  Unless thy smile be there,
It makes me sad to see the earth so gay;
  I care not if the train
Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again.