Clear-throated minstrel! what desires can move
Thee, in thy branchy, mist-empurpled swing,
When woods are cold, and winds are sorrowing,
Thus to rehearse thy last year notes of love;
To thrill with all thy heart the listening grove;
To sit, and, with no surety of the Spring,
To answer every voice the breezes bring;
And thine excelling championship to prove?
In the dead Winter of an early sorrow,
No thought of quickening Spring my spirit cheers!
But as I hearken, of thy strength I borrow;
Hope with thy music mingles in mine ears!
Thou, that so cheerly settest forth the morrow,
While round thee million buds are wet with tears!
(A Book of Bristol Sonnets, p. 74)