 | The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod |  |
SONNET
THE SPRING, THE SUMMER
The Spring, the Summer; Autumn, Winter wildI love them all, and though they never stay
Their onward flight, yet like a fickle child
I find in each some charm to take away
The vain regret that steals upon the heart
That these with all their joys so soon depart.
And thus I would it were with Friendship, Love,
When these brief blessings perish, why should we
Weep o'er the change? Why should we never prove
That like the seasons Love alternately
May sicken die brighten and burn once more
Till the false Present smiles—as days of yore
When language was Truth's echo, and the breast
A home where joyous thoughts alone found rest.
| The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod | |