Written on Farm Wood, South Downs, May 1784. <br />SPRING'S dewy hand on this fair summit weaves <br />The downy grass, with tufts of Alpine flowers, <br />And shades the beechen slopes with tender leaves, <br />And leads the shepherd to his upland bowers, <br />Strewn with wild thyme; while slow-descending showers <br />Feed the green ear, and nurse the future sheaves. <br />--Ah, blest the hind--whom no sad thought bereaves <br />Of the gay Season's pleasures!--All his hours <br />To wholesome labour given, or thoughtless mirth; <br />No pangs of sorrow past, or coming dread, <br />Bend his unconscious spirit down to earth, <br />Or chase calm slumbers from his careless head! <br />Ah, what to me can those dear days restore, <br />When scenes could charm that now I taste no more!<br /><br />Charlotte Smith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxxi-4/
