An Adieu

SORROW, quit me for a while!Wintry days are over;Hope again, with April smile,Violet sows and clover.

Pleasure follows in her path,Love itself flies after,And the brook a music hathSweet as childhood's laughter.

Not a bird upon the boughCan repress its rapture,Not a bud that blossoms nowBut doth beauty capture. . . .

Sorrow, thou art Winter's mate,Spring cannot regret thee;Yet, ah, yet—my friend of late—I shall not forget thee!