Charlotte Turner Smith (Шарлотта Смит)

Sonnet 8. To Spring

AGAIN the wood and long-withdrawing vale
In many a tint of tender green are drest,
Where the young leaves, unfolding, scarce conceal
Beneath their early shade, the half-form'd nest
Of finch or woodlark; and the primrose pale,
And lavish cowslip, wildly scatter'd round,
Give their sweet spirits to the sighing gale.
Ah! season of delight!--could aught be found
To soothe awhile the tortured bosom's pain,
Of sorrow's rankling shaft to cure the wound,
And bring life's first delusions once again,
'Twere surely met in thee!--thy prospect fair,
Thy sounds of harmony, thy balmy air,
Have power to cure all sadness--but despair.

1. Sonnet 85. The Fairest Flowers Are Gone! For Tempests Fell
2. Sonnet 27. Sighing I See Yon Little Troop at Play
3. Sonnet 66. The Night-Flood Rakes
4. Sonnet 13. From Petrarch (OH! place me where the burning moon)
5. Sonnet 33. To the Naiad of the Arun

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