 | Lays of Leisure Hours |  |
74
SONNET.
Some few sweet bird-notes pierce the awakening air,And little flow'rets delicately meek
Begin the ground to enamel and to streak,
And for thine advent Spring! all things prepare.
But slow thou comest!—May, the royally fair,
Is near:—but must these chill gales fan her cheek,
And o'er her gracious forehead rudely break?
Haste! thou sweet Spring! or thou wilt miss thy share
Of the great glorious year—where dost delay?
In the fair realms beyond the folding cloud?
Beyond the veiling firmament's vast sway,
Where Death is not the imperious Lord avowed,
Even of thy precious things,—far, far away?
Yet come to gladden hearts to Love's rule brightly bowed.
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