BORNE on the warm wing of the western gale, <br />How tremulously low is heard to float <br />Thro' the green budding thorns that fringe the vale <br />The early Nightingale's prelusive note. <br />'Tis Hope's instinctive power that through the grove <br />Tells how benignant Heaven revives the earth; <br />'Tis the soft voice of young and timid love <br />That calls these melting sounds of sweetness forth. <br />With transport, once, sweet bird! I hail'd thy lay, <br />And bade thee welcome to our shades again, <br />To charm the wandering poet's pensive way <br />And soothe the solitary lover's pain; <br />But now!--such evils in my lot combine, <br />As shut my languid sense--to Hope's dear voice and thine!<br /><br />Charlotte Smith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lv-3/
