 | Poems by Hartley Coleridge |  |
69
IX.
Oh, what a joy is in the vernal air!For Nature now is like a budding girl,
Whose merry laugh displays, more white than pearl,
Teeth that make lovers old as me despair.
And yet, though Time has written on my hair
A notice from all amorous thoughts to part,
This day persuades long slumbering hopes to start,
Like cuckoo notes, from winter's drowsy lair.
Yet, my young love, I hope not for the thing
That is the prism of my soul. Oh, no!
I scorn the wish that to my love would bring
Laborious days, and poverty, and woe.
I only wish thou mayst beloved be
By a much better man, as I love thee.
| Poems by Hartley Coleridge | |