And harsh were e’en the bird of eve,
But that her song still loves to grieve.
All it hath been, his heart forgets,
So alter’d by its long regrets;
Each wish is changed, each hope is o’er,
And joy’s light spirit wakes no more.
SONNET 271.
“A formosura desta fresca serra.”
This mountain-scene with sylvan grandeur crown’d,
These chestnut-woods, in summer verdure bright;