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Poem	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!
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