Poem by Charlotte Turner Smith

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 33. To the Naiad of the Arun
2. Sonnet 85. The Fairest Flowers Are Gone! For Tempests Fell
3. Sonnet 21. Supposed to Written by Werter
4. Sonnet 75. Where the Wild Woods and Pathless Forests Frown
5. Sonnet 64. Here from the Restless Bed of Lingering Pain

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