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!
