 | Plays and poems |  |
394
[Spring, in the gentle look with which she turns]
Spring, in the gentle look with which she turnsHer sunny glance on all, indeed I find;
And ardent Summer in the roses burns
Of her twin cheeks, and from her gracious mind—
Like rare exotics nursed in precious urns,
With cultured taste and native grace combined—
Her teeming thoughts arise: too well she learns
This summer sweetness! Generous Autumn, bind
A deathless chaplet round her queenly brow;
For, like thy own, in boundless charity,
Her heart is filled with motives frank and free,
Her hand with alms. Alas! I see it now;
From thee, cold Winter, all her fancies flow,
Who, rich in all, will nothing give to me.
| Plays and poems | |