But on the workings of my heart 25
Doth memory act a busy part;
That jocund April morn lives there,
Its cheering sounds, its hues so fair.
Why mixes with remembrance blithe
What nothing but the restless scythe 30
Of Death can utterly destroy,
A heaviness, a dull alloy?
Ah Friend! thy heart can answer why.
Even then I heaved a bitter sigh,