CHARLOTTE SMITH1749-1806
1749-1806
The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,Each simple flower which she has nurs’d in dew,Anemones, that spangled every grove,The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.No more shall violets linger in the dell,Or purple orchis variegate the plain,Till Spring again shall call forth every bellAnd dress with hurried hands her wreaths again.Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair,And the fond visions of thy early day,Till tyrant passion and corrosive careBid all thy fairy colours flee away!Another May new birds and flowers shall bring;Ah! why has happiness no second spring?
The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,Each simple flower which she has nurs’d in dew,Anemones, that spangled every grove,The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.No more shall violets linger in the dell,Or purple orchis variegate the plain,Till Spring again shall call forth every bellAnd dress with hurried hands her wreaths again.Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair,And the fond visions of thy early day,Till tyrant passion and corrosive careBid all thy fairy colours flee away!Another May new birds and flowers shall bring;Ah! why has happiness no second spring?
The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,Each simple flower which she has nurs’d in dew,Anemones, that spangled every grove,The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.No more shall violets linger in the dell,Or purple orchis variegate the plain,Till Spring again shall call forth every bellAnd dress with hurried hands her wreaths again.Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair,And the fond visions of thy early day,Till tyrant passion and corrosive careBid all thy fairy colours flee away!Another May new birds and flowers shall bring;Ah! why has happiness no second spring?
The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,
Each simple flower which she has nurs’d in dew,
Anemones, that spangled every grove,
The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,
Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell
And dress with hurried hands her wreaths again.
Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair,
And the fond visions of thy early day,
Till tyrant passion and corrosive care
Bid all thy fairy colours flee away!
Another May new birds and flowers shall bring;
Ah! why has happiness no second spring?