Sonnet LXXIX

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE



That window where my sun is often seen

Refulgent, and the world's at morning's hours;

And that, where Boreas blows, when winter lowers,

And the short days reveal a clouded scene;

That bench of stone where, with a pensive mien,

My Laura sits, forgetting beauty's powers;

Haunts where her shadow strikes the walls or flowers,

And her feet press the paths or herbage green:

The place where Love assail'd me with success;

And spring, the fatal time that, first observed,

Revives the keen remembrance every year;

With looks and words, that o'er me have preserved

A power no length of time can render less,

Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing tear.



Penn.



That window where my sun is ever seen,

Dazzling and bright, and Nature's at the none;

And that where still, when Boreas rude has blown

In the short days, the air thrills cold and keen:

The stone where, at high noon, her seat has been,

Pensive and parleying with herself alone:

Haunts where her bright form has its shadow thrown,

Or trod her fairy foot the carpet green:

The cruel spot where first Love spoil'd my rest,

And the new season which, from year to year,

Opes, on this day, the old wound in my breast:

The seraph face, the sweet words, chaste and dear,

Which in my suffering heart are deep impress'd,

All melt my fond eyes to the frequent tear.



Macgregor.