On the fleet streams, the Sun, that late arose,
In amber radiance plays; the tall young grass
No foot hath bruised; clear morning, as I pass,
Breathes the pure gale, that on the blossom blows;
And, as with gold yon green hill's summit glows,
The lake inlays the vale with molten glass:
Now is the year's soft youth, yet one, alas!
Cheers not as it was wont; impending woes
Weigh on my heart; the joys, that once were mine,
Spring leads not back; and those that yet remain
Fade while she blooms. Each hour more lovely shine
Her crystal beams, and feed her floral train,
But oh with pale, and warring fires, decline
Those eyes, whose light my filial hopes sustain.
Anna Seward (1747-1809)
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