New Spring, 44

Grey’s the sky and every-day like,
And the town still looks afflicted;
Ever weak and castaway like,
In the Elbe its form’s depicted.

Long each nose is, and its blowing
Tedious an affair as ever;
All with pride are overflowing,
Both at pomp and cringing clever.

Beauteous South! O, how adore I
All thy gods, thy sky’s sweet blisses,
Since these human dregs once more I
See, and weather foul as this is!