Lines Written at Thorp Green

That summer sun, whose genial glow

Now cheers my drooping spirit so

Must cold and distant 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 landscapes drear

To them that are at Home!