Or if tears ever overflowed my eyes,
They passed as showers, which April clouds do bring,
And quick again my joyous soul took wing;
As when the bird from out its covert flies,
To welcome sunshine back with carolling,
New plumes its pinions, higher yet to rise.
But now, alas! I’m like the wounded bird!
An arrow in this bosom pierces deep—
My spirit droops—my song no more is heard;
My harp to mourning turned, is only stirred