LXXVIII
NO time could hold my heart more fit than this,
The vernal month, when summer’s early hours,
Fanned by faint odors from the newborn flowers,
Bespeak thyself, the thief of my heart’s bliss,
And on thy cheek imprint the tender kiss
That bringeth love within young Cupid’s bowers.
Thus would thy magic touch, with subtle powers,
Bring to my soul some metamorphosis.
No more repine, O heart! No longer weep.
No more heave sighs, or, sighing, be cast down.
Nature her balm of sunshine bringeth thee,
That in its warmth thou shalt her treasure keep.
Let not my brow be shadowed by a frown;
For love at last walks hand in hand with me.