| |
|
XCVII.
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the
pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I
felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's
bareness every where!
And yet this time removed was
summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich
increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet
this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans
and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures
wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are
mute;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
|
|
|
