Like this earth, may my mind be made
To feel the freshness round me spreading,
No other aid to rouse it needing
Than thy glad light, so long delayed.
Sweet woodland sunshine!—none but thee
Can wake the joys of memory,
Which seemed decaying, as all decayed.
'O! may they bud, as thou dost now,
With promise of a summer near!
Nay—let me feel my weary brow—