Lines Written at Thorp Green

That summer sun, whose genial glow
Now cheers my drooping spirit so,
Must cold and silent be,
And only light our northern clime
With feeble ray, before the time
I long so much to see.

And this soft, whispering breeze, that now
So gently cools my fevered brow,
This too, alas! must turn
To a wild blast, whose icy dart
Pierces and chills me to the heart,
Before I cease to mourn.

And these bright flowers I love so well,
Verbena, rose, and sweet bluebell,
Must droop and die away;
Those thick, green leaves, with all their shade
And rustling music, they must fade,
And every one decay.

But if the sunny, summer time,
And woods and meadows in their prime,
Are sweet to them that roam;
Far sweeter is the winter bare,
With long, dark nights, and landscape drear,
To them that are at Home!